


We All Have Our Scars

by GenerallyObsessedWithEverything



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, AU where Civil War never happened, AU where Infinity War will never happen, Avenger Bucky Barnes, Characterization may be wrong but I'm sorry, Everything is Fine and Nothing Hurts, F/M, First Fanfiction, Fuck the Accords, Mental Illness, Pain, Past Torture, Possible smut, Reader has depression, Reader has superpowers, Reader-Insert, Scars, Shapeshifter, Thanos who?, Torture, post winter soldier, reader is a badass, reader is an assassin, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 36,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenerallyObsessedWithEverything/pseuds/GenerallyObsessedWithEverything
Summary: After spending most of your life an experiment and a slave, you're on your fourth year of freedom. Except. . . It doesn't feel that way. Life as an assassin is not what you wanted, but it's what you got, and the only thing keeping you from ending it is a promise you made. With your training as an assassin on top of your ability to shift into whatever animal you choose - at the price of the first transformation requiring your body to break and rebuild itself before you can do it seamlessly - you have managed to support yourself day to day by brutally killing the worst kind of people.You're resigned to live in numbness and self-hate for the rest of your life, until you're framed for a crime you didn't commit and The Avengers are after you.Then, when everything seems to be going well, old ghosts turn up and threaten to destroy everything.This is my first piece of work so I'd like to clarify a few things:There are no mentions of skin colour or race or hair type.I don't know if I'd portrayed depression properly, if I haven't then I apologize and will work on it in future works.There will be descriptions of graphic torture.Other than that, Enjoy!





	1. The Aftermath

Naked, you were knelt over the rim of a cracked porcelain toilet, regurgitating a never-ending river of dark blood while the scars crisscrossing all over you strained under the sheet of damp blood coating you. Most of it wasn’t your blood thankfully, and the segments of organs and the occasional eyeball certainly were not yours. This happened every time you went on the warpath and it was torture, not that you weren’t used to that though. The scars all over your body were a testament to your experience under torture. When you were an animal, ripping and tearing with your mouth as well as your claws, sometimes you didn’t have the time, the patience or the luxury to clean your mouth out before moving forward. You were certain that when you died and went to hell, it would just be an eternity of vomiting up the blood and body parts of those unfortunate enough to cross paths with you. Maybe they would be there, jeering at you as you spat parts of them up. Maybe they would collect what you had taken and become whole again. Well they could have them. It wasn’t like you were building a collection.

The retching finally stopped, leaving you with bloody strings of drool dangling from your mouth as you spit up what was left. You’d need something strong to wash out the taste, whiskey should do it. It was a fantastic pain reliever too, in more ways than one. But. . . Fuck, you forget to get some. Well that was just fucking typical wasn’t it. You flushed the toilet in your tiny flat, hoping it wouldn’t get blocked again. Not that the landlord would talk with those fat wads of cash you gave him, easily triple the actual cost of the rent. Whatever. You could afford it. The rent for this broken little place hadn’t even been that much to begin with, and the landlord wasn’t a bad guy. He had initially tried to refuse your offer, and he had been afraid of you the first time the toilet had been clogged by blood and intestines, probably thinking you were a cannibal or a serial killer. Meh, he technically wasn’t that far from the truth but the last tenants had actually _been_ serial killers who murdered prostitutes for fun so it wasn't like he hadn't seen worse. Quite frankly it was a miracle anyone had wanted to stay here after that. You cut him a deal on top of the tripled rent, you would protect his family for as long as you stayed in this little apartment. He had practically jumped on the offer. This neighbourhood was a rough one, and as an added benefit of playing guardian angel you could personally say that his wife made the best lasagna you had ever tasted, and you had eaten in some high class restaurants. And it had only improved with the extra money you were giving them. Their eldest daughter had just graduated with a law degree, and all the children still in school had wonderful ambitions, the youngest one being twelve and wanting to be a microbiologist. Life for them had improved with your intervention. It didn’t make you feel any better about yourself though.

Mercifully, everything went down smooth, so poor old Joe wouldn’t have to put on his hazmat suit to unclog it. You rocked back on your heels as the gunk of the night swirled downwards into oblivion, the self-depreciating part of you wishing you could be among the filth like you deserved. You wiped your mouth as you rose to your feet, dreading having to wipe down the rim of the toilet where you had been clutching it and the floor where you had been kneeling. You needed to lie down and watch TV.

Every time you hurled your guts up your energy was completely drained. Add that onto the exhaustion that had already swept through you after the events of the day and you could sufficiently say that you were completely knackered. And then add that up on top of that familiar numbness that would always sweep in. It was a void that you couldn't help falling into. It stopped you from doing everything you had found that you had enjoyed during those blissful first two years of freedom, it had made you forget some of them. The numbness was comforting in the way it made you feel nothing, a menace in the way that it kept all of the good things away too. It wasn't there all the time. When you killed someone you usually were angry in a way that made your job easier, since they were literally the scum of the Earth. Sometimes you felt guilt. Other times remorse and sadness. Never true happiness though. You hadn't felt that in a long time.

You needed a shower. Turning the hot water on, you slipped under and groaned as the blood was washed away from your skin and your hair. You couldn’t wash away your sins, but this was the next best thing. Your fingers had wrinkled by the time you had found the willpower to leave the loving embrace of the shower. You towel dried your hair and dragged a brush through it before slipping into an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of loose pajama bottoms made of a soft material that you couldn’t quite place. You microwaved the leftovers from your Chinese take-out and poured yourself a drink, nothing alcoholic since you didn’t fucking have anything. Sitting on your little couch you turned the TV on using the remote, flicking to the news. Just as you thought, you were breaking news. Or, your kill was.

It was a mobster who thought himself a modern Capone, so that’s what he called himself. You had made a conscious effort to never learn his real name. Your client had asked you to eliminate him in a violent manner. He had provided no other details but had paid handsomely. You did some investigating before you made the kill, you always did due to the fact you didn’t want to have the blood of the innocent on your hands when the blood of the guilty was already hard enough to wash off. Turns out, this guy's daughter had turned him away when he demanded she crawl into bed with him. He took her to bed anyway, violently. Then he left her broken and hurting on the side of a motorway. When you visited her, you saw exactly what the extent of that damage was. She wanted to abort the baby he put inside her, wash away the stain. She was only seventeen. She didn’t have the money. She didn’t even have the money to pay for the hospital bills after her father had paid you, not realizing the cost of physically repairing her. So you paid for it. All of it. The abortion and the hospital bills. The therapy was free since the psychologist owed you a favour after you had saved him from a patient that had decided to take out her violent tendencies on him, with a pair of scissors.

The client had been clear. Make him suffer. And he did. Oh God did he suffer. You could still taste him and his men when you had taken chunks out of them. You had used your tiger form to dispatch the few men he had with him as quickly as possible, taking chunks out of them in vital areas and swallowing what you couldn’t spit back out. It wasn’t as if the tiger side of you had minded that much. When you saw him you were hidden in shadow, but he could see the light reflecting off of your yellow eyes in the darkness as you prowled forward, guttural growls piercing the space between you and him. You took your sweet time making your way towards him, savouring his rising panic as he realized that he was well and truly trapped with a ferocious tiger between him and the door. Your hot breath came out in huge clouds, the smell of blood and meat strong. And then he truly saw you in all your power when the light properly hit you. And good god were you fucking huge, even among tigers. His eyes wandered to the blood of his men against your pitch black stripes and the orange fur that rippled as the lean muscles moved with a powerful grace that could only be achieved by a big cat. Your long teeth drew his attention next, how white they were in comparison to the chunks of flesh and the bloody strings that dangled from those long, sharp daggers. Your growls became something else entirely as you lowered yourself to the ground. A roar that was so full of rage and promised violence that he pissed his pants. Then you pounced.

The news was reporting how the notorious mobster had the police in his pocket and was a close friend of several wealthy and powerful politicians, so he was untouchable. And that was the irony of the situation. He had been found ripped open, claw marks and bite marks decorating his corpse to the point where it was almost unrecognizable. It had been a slow death, and he’d screamed until his vocal chords were raw. Right before you finished it, you turned into your human form. Naked and covered in blood you leered over him, putting on a facade of madness as you spat her name out at him, telling him that she sends her regards. Then you shifted back and ripped out his heart. So, he may have been untouchable, but so were you. After all, how could anything be traced back to you directly when he had been attacked by a tiger? Oh, people knew that the frequent animal attacks on criminals, gangsters and corrupt politicians had something to do with the unknown assassin who was just as brutal with a knife as they were with a gun. Regardless of how unwilling people who hired assassins were to talk about them, word always got out. So, while the world knew you shared a connection with _some_ of the animal attacks, they had no idea about your secret or your identity.

They didn’t show the crime scene on the news, but you knew what it looked like. Sighing, you flicked through the channels until you found something entertaining to watch, pushing out that evenings encounter with that evil. . . you couldn’t- wouldn’t call him a man. Or even a human. Human beings shouldn’t be that cruel.  
Maybe that was why you hated yourself so much.

Authors Note:  
Hi all! Hope you enjoyed this first chapter. The other characters won't be introduced for a while, sorry. I'll have the next chapter posted as soon as I can xx


	2. A Day In The Life

Sunlight filtered through your thin curtains as you lay in bed the next morning. It was warm and peaceful, and you were content to just lie there for a few hours just to savour the feeling. Just for a little while until that familiar silence in your head slowly took over and that numbness swallowed you up. You glanced at your digital clock, numbers the colour of freshly spilled blood reading _13:37_ . Once, that may have seemed like an extremely long lie in due to a hard night. But the truth was that this was always around the time you woke up, regardless of what time you went to bed, and you usually went to bed very early. You slept a lot, it took up a good chunk of your day. Had taken up a good chunk of your _year_ now that you thought about it. Some days it was difficult to get out of bed altogether. Sometimes you spent entire days sleeping when an episode got _really_ bad and you wanted to do nothing more than end your miserable life and be with him. But that promise you made. . . You had no intention of breaking it, because you knew that he would be disappointed in you if you did. _Come on (Y/N), time to get up,_ you heard his voice say in your head as it had so often whispered on lazy Sunday mornings amid a pile of tangled limbs. You threw back the covers and swung your legs out, sitting up while you rubbed at your eyes.

Another day.

Another battle.

Yippee.

You had just been paid a generous amount, even with at least half of it going to that girls hospital bills, so you would pay the rent for the month and go food shopping. What an exciting day. Compared to your usual day plan of sleeping, eating, watching TV and training, you supposed it was. In a few days you would look for another job, simply because there was nothing else to do apart from your usual routine. Jobs were never difficult to find, there was always someone who coveted the skills of an assassin. Especially an infamous one such as yourself. That was your routine. That had been your life for the past two years.

***

It was warm out. Warm enough that most people wore shorts and skirts. Not you though. The only skin revealed to the world was your face, neck, and hands, with the rest covered to hide the scars from the prying eyes that were a common trait among your species. A plain black t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans and combat boots were enough to keep everything private and make you completely unapproachable. Just the way you liked it. The curious looks you received from people wondering what the hell you were doing covering yourself up in this weather were preferable to the inquisitive, pitying and sometimes disgusted looks that you would have no doubt received if you had been showing them off. At one point, you may not have cared. You had made it very clear that you didn’t care about most things. But this. . . it was too much. It was all too much to handle even with that nothingness that dictated your life. So you hid them, and grew accustomed to the heat of wearing more layers than was appropriate in certain types of weather. Today, for example. It felt like one of the minor areas of Hell that shoplifters probably went to. Not unbearable but dear fucking god the demons better be handing out water bottles.  

You hadn’t started shopping yet, instead you had paused to look at the giant tower that guarded the city while you were on your way to your favourite cafe. You may not feel that much anymore but you still had a sense of taste. And right now your sense of taste demanded a ham and cheese toastie and chocolate cake with a diet coke on the side.

Stark Tower, A.K.A. the Avengers Tower.

The home to Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, a group that seemed to keep on growing and growing and growing. You had heard on the grapevine that Hawkeye was especially bad for bringing home strays. Except for that one time that Captain America had brought one home after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. You wondered if they were all there now, wondered what they were doing. If they were planning a mission or if they were laughing together, talking and exchanging stories from the past. They could be bickering about something stupid, or about something major. Maybe they weren’t doing anything and were just content to sit in each others company like friends do. You smiled a little at the thought. Just a little smile. While it wasn't true happiness, it still felt nice. You had never really had any friends, apart from one who had definitely been more, and he was long gone now. You had buried him yourself so unless the universe decided to play some cruel trick on you by bringing him back as a zombie, you were never going to see him again. To see him again as you had buried him, twisted and ruined and burned. . . it took everything you had in that moment to shove that memory out with a happy one, and even those ones hurt. So you shrank back into the void and let the it protect you. That little smile was wiped from your face.

You couldn’t turn away from the tower fast enough, almost tripping over your own feet just to have your back to it. Thinking about your own crushing loneliness didn’t help it, it just made things so much worse. You didn’t have any close friends. There was no one you could pour your heart out to. There was no one that you could confide in about your scars, your profession. Your past. Or the agony that accompanied your power and made you afraid to shift into something new. There was no one to help you out of the emotional rut you were in. You didn’t go to that therapist you had saved, figuring that you could save his favour for something else, like helping that girl. You had a bullshit excuse for a life and there was no one that could change that. You couldn’t even bear to take anyone to bed anymore. The first year after he died you had tried and succeeded in having an active sex life but. . . even with the physical pleasure, it felt wrong after a while. Like doing it with someone that you didn’t love didn’t give the same _kind_ of pleasure. It was just a temporary high that made you crave more and more while making you hate yourself even more, so eventually you just stopped all together. On top of those things, in the few years since you had been trained with your gift you could only turn into a few animals. There wasn’t really a need for anymore, you supposed. That was what you told yourself. Really, you were frightened. Because you didn’t know how you could deal with the agony again and again, regardless of how much you wished you could. In five years you could turn into a grand total of five creatures and nothing else. You were pathetic.

Whatever.

You sighed and continued walking to the cafe.

***

You went home with your shopping and threw yourself into training, letting the physical activity completely distract you for the rest of the day. Then you let the pain coursing through your muscles as a result distract you too as you ate one of your microwavable meals in front of your TV. As was your daily routine. The concentration on your training was necessary, or you would crash. So everyday you pushed yourself to the point of exhaustion so you could sleep like the dead. There were no dreams most nights, when even your subconscious was too tired to come out and play. Tonight proved to not be one of those nights.

***

You shot up in bed, screaming for him. Or you tried to. It came out as a strangled cry as you broke out in a cold sweat. Panting, you looked at your clock. The digital numbers told you that it was just after midnight. You let yourself fall back down to recover from the harrowing events of your dream, more a playback of the shitshow that was your life than anything.

It was the same nightmare as every other time. You dreamed of the first years of your life, what followed was the torture and experimentation that was their attempt to turn you into a weapon for them . _How_ _cliche. You’d think they’d at least develop some creativity_. You dreamed of the day you were recaptured after having spent two years on the run, using your powers to slightly increase on the number of animals you could shift into. You dreamed of the day they tortured and killed him to break you. Dreamed of your rampage. When they killed him, you hadn’t broken. _You had shattered_. Everything that he had spent so long repairing inside of you came undone as you broke free and burned that place to the ground with everyone inside of it, including him. You dreamed of finding his blackened corpse and carrying out into the woods to bury it.

You hadn’t cried many times in your life where people could see, refusing to give your handlers that satisfaction. It had been the only amount of obvious resistance you had ever put up before your escape with him, outside of the few incidents you had had. Those incidents and the less obvious shows of resistance had been what had earned you some of your scars. Sometimes when the pain they put you through was too much you couldn’t help it.

When you had learned of the circumstances of your birth you had cried. You had cried the day you held a private funeral for him, your sobbing had soaked the Earth you had buried your lover under. But never again since that day.You wouldn’t break your streak now, even if just saying his name was enough to send pangs of fresh agony through the remnants of your heart.

 _Ryan_.

 _He should have lived_ , you thought to yourself, _not me. The world deserves more people like him_. Instead they had you, an assassin that specialized in brutal deaths and couldn’t even be bothered to make an effort in day to day life most of the time. Fate has a sick sense of humour.

He had encouraged you to use your gift. He had marveled at the tiger and had been with you when you had shifted into an anaconda for the first time. He had loved trying to hide from the wolf form and inevitably failing. He had laughed as you had learned to fly as a raven, then he’d marveled at the wonders of the ocean with you when you had turned into an orca. Oh, that one had hurt, you’d had to be underwater to do it, for obvious reasons. Your curse hadn’t let you drown, but you had still felt the agony of water filling your lungs and suffocating you as your body had broken and bled and stung and stretched in the saltwater before turning into one of the most beautiful sea creatures on the planet.

You hadn’t flown since he’d died, hadn’t explored the ocean either. You hadn’t shifted into something new. At one point you would have to fix that. Soon. Because you couldn’t help but feel that he’d be disappointed in you and your refusal to utilize your gift for something more than killing and fighting. Ryan would be disappointed you hadn’t tested yourself, hadn’t expanded on your power, and that you never used it for fun.

He’d be disappointed.

That was your last thought as you drifted off again into a dreamless sleep.

Authors Note:  
Hi all! Hope this one was up to standard xx


	3. Bad News

The next evening, after you spent the first few of hours out of bed eating and watching shitty TV shows, you turned the TV off and started your daily training by doing pull ups on a metal bar you had installed on the outside of your bedroom door frame. The muscles in your back and arms shifted, the scars marring your skin stretching with each powerful movement. After you hit one hundred you slowly lowered yourself down to the floor and released the metal bar, cracking your knuckles as the blood began slowly pumping. You pushed the couch against the wall to free up more space in your too small apartment and started on working your legs, barely having broken a sweat. You exercised nearly every day, except the days before and after a kill. The first day being used to build up your strength while the day after was used to rest. Then the cycle would begin again.

You didn’t have super strength, but in terms of a normal person you could be considered  _ very _ strong. Freakishly strong even. You didn't know whether or not your strength was because of something in your DNA or because of the training that had made up a large chunk of your life. You were certainly strong enough to knock a man out and haul him over your shoulder. You had discovered this fact with Ryan in the first month the two of you had escaped together, and you had taken considerable pride and delight in it when you found out, even if your handlers had already given you some indication of how strong you truly could be. They had never really let you test your full potential. They had been afraid of you ever since they found you.

Finding out about the true extent of your strength had been a happy moment full of laughter and smiles, but now your face. . . it was cold, emotionless and impassive, and if someone were to see it when you had your eyes closed they may think it the face of a dead woman. You didn’t feel pride in things anymore, and you mostly got through the day wearing your dead-woman-mask. Even when you trained there was a distinct lack of. . . well, anything, on your face. Only concentration. When you were outside you often kept your face hidden to some extent, be it with a hood or just by making sure your head was down. Your face tended to scare people. 

There was no light in your eyes or fire in your heart. Not anymore.

All the emotions you should be feeling were kept in the darkest corners of your mind by that numbness and concentration that was used when you threw yourself into training. Occasionally one leaked out, occasionally you let one out, and it was much harder to keep them locked away after a nightmare.

You had said you had felt pride when you discovered you could throw people over your shoulder, well, it had been a long time since you’d felt pride in anything.

When you had pushed the couch over, you had absentmindedly noted how direly the wood paneling needed replaced. Everything in this tiny apartment except for the weapons needed replaced. The whitewashed walls - really more of a grey colour by now - desperately needed a lick of painted to hide the stains where you had accidently brushed up against them either drenched in sweat or covered in a coat of blood. In the year you’d been here you’d kept the original wood paneling in every room, worn down by the feet of all the tenants before you. New furniture would be needed too, more than just an old couch and a narrow bed. It was all affordable. You had enough money to be considered rich and the apartment only consisted of the bedroom, bathroom and the living space that was shared by an open kitchen area. But you just. . . couldn’t be bothered to make the effort. As unlikely as it was, you could die any day, what would be the point? You never even made the bed, only did the washing when you had no clothes, and you usually just let the dishes pile up until you needed to use one. Like you said, it had been a long time since you had taken pride in anything. The only thing you consistently did was keep the windows open. The flat was small enough that it felt too closed and confined otherwise. 

Most small spaces weren’t really that much of a problem to be honest, but when they had moved you from place to place they had shut you in what could only be described as a coffin so that you were easier to move. They didn’t do it very often, thankfully, maybe about five times in your entire life. But it had been one of the instances where you had completely freaked out. Whenever they tried to put you in you had kicked and screamed, then when they forced the lid down and locked the chains to secure you in place you would scream and scratch at the lid until you passed out completely from exhaustion. Being shut in that coffin had been some of the very few instances where you had cried. 

Legwork completed, you then went over fighting techniques with some of the melee weapons that you didn’t even bother to keep hidden, including scimitars, katanas, serrated hunting knives, a bo staff, sais, daggers and hatchets. You wouldn’t practice all of them in one night, that would take too long. Half tonight and the other half tomorrow. The reason you didn’t hide them was simple; no one was stupid enough to try and rob you. People may not know your identity as an assassin, but several muggers had found themselves in bloody heaps, so you had a bit of a reputation in this neighbourhood.

Half of your assassinations had been done by you in your human form, the other half being the ones that had baffled people. Like you had said, everyone knew that the assassin behind the human kills were connected to them in some way, be it setting wild animals on people or just staging an attack. But that then begged the question; why would you only make some look like an attack and the others look like a professional killing?

There were certain circumstances when using a human hand and mind to deal with someone was needed, and you always liked to test your skill with different guns and melee weapons. Pedophiles, rapists, murderers that sulked in alleyways and up-and-coming gangsters like Capone - who had only had two men with him - were easy enough to shred apart as a beast, but some people that had been trained in combat like you and possessed a modicum of intelligence were a different story. Even if they couldn’t fight a wolf, tiger, or an anaconda directly, they were smart enough to carry weapons that would be able to take one down when there was always a risk someone would send you in particular to take care of them, and they were smart enough to always have people with them to maximize their chances of survival. Fighting a lot of people with guns who were  _ very _ aware of your presence when you were an animal wasn’t smart. You only ever turned into a human being during an animal kill when you were sure it was safe to do so, like when everyone was dead, and your target was well on their way to joining them. You usually just did it to leer over them, to let them know who killed them and why they were being killed. It was brutal and cruel, but you just couldn’t resist letting them know that you were giving them what they deserved.

Regardless of the form you were in, the kills were still brutal and effective. You had always thought that it would be twice as effective to be able to alternate between creature and human, but given that you couldn’t shift clothes and weapons with you it was not something that you had considered trying in the field. Too dangerous. You were a bitch to kill but you were by no means invincible.

***

Finishing up your weapons and hand-to-hand combat training for the night, you pushed the couch back into its normal position and switched the TV on. The news appeared on the screen, a blonde reporter with a gap in her teeth about to give a report. You were only half listening as you rinsed out a glass and filled it with cold water. You stared blankly at the wall as you raised the glass to your lips and tuned in to what she was saying.

“In a tragic turn of events, several former agents of the now shut down Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division - A.K.A. S.H.I.E.L.D. - have been found mutilated in their homes over the past two weeks. The public were not informed earlier to avoid mass hysteria. However, since it has become possible the culprit may look elsewhere, authorities have decided to warn the public to take extra safety precautions. With half of the former agents being ripped apart by animals and the other half being tortured with various weapons, the authorities have a clear suspect.”

You whirled at that, having to grip the counter in. . . Shock. This was what shock felt like. It had been a while since you had felt this. Your attention was now fully on what she was saying about you.

“For two years some of the worst men and women in the world have been assassinated by an unknown assailant with unusual methods. With half of the kills being the work of a sadist, the other half are unusual in that although the same culprit is at fault, it is unknown how or why they have animals attack. Some believe they simply release their victims exotic pets while others believe that they set their own exotic pets on their targets.”

Your breathing became laboured, and you were suddenly finding it difficult to stand as your gripped the counter hard enough to make your knuckles turn white.

“The Avengers are now on the case and rumour suggest that they have a few leads in regards to the killers identity.”

The room started spinning, and you were only distantly aware of letting go of the glass and hearing it shatter at your feet. Fear. That was what you were feeling now. And you hated it. It was so different to the numbness that usually took hold, but right now that numbness was absolutely nowhere to be found, and you would give anything to sink back into it.

_ Oh god. Oh dear fucking god _ . The Avengers. Earth’s Mightiest Heroes were after you for a crime you didn’t commit. You stepped over the shattered glass and stumbled over to the couch, dropping yourself heavily onto it. You had never even considered S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. You would never have killed them, not without a good reason. And leads? How the fuck could they have any leads? You never met clients face to face. The only people that had ever seen you in action in the past couple of years were the people that you sent to hell. And it couldn’t possibly have been. . . No. No, they were all dead. You had made sure of it.

You put your head in your hands, very aware of how your world had very suddenly come crashing down on you. 

“However, there are those that have their doubts, since the usual targets are what are generally considered evil. Before the recent killing spree, the globe was divided in their feelings about the assassin, with some saying that murder is never right, and others saying that people like them deserved to die. We will update you when there is more information.”

She moved on, and you turned the TV off. In the space of ten minutes, everything had gone to shit. Innocent people had been murdered, the blame had been placed entirely on your shoulders, and the Avengers were on their way to discovering your identity. Right now, you wanted nothing more than to sink into the numbness. You cracked your knuckles again, pondering on what you were going to do. If only Ryan had been here with you.     

Little did you know, things were only going to get worse from here on out.

 

Authors Note:

I am soooo sorry that it took so long to get this up. It took me forever to be completely happy with it and I kept going back to chapter one and two to try and fix inconsistencies. Well, I hope it was worth the wait because this is where things start to get interesting.


	4. Things Just Go From Bad To Worse

A grand total of three hours of sleep was a clear indication that you were not yourself. For most of the night you had done nothing but gnaw at your fingernails and stare at the ceiling, watching a spider slowly crawl from one corner of the room to the next, like it had all the time in the world. Lucky bastard. That numbness hadn’t returned yet, the uncertainty and fear of what you had heard being the most prevalent thoughts banging around inside your head. Murders. Avengers. Leads. How had this happened? Why was this happening? Why now? These were not good thoughts to have at four in the morning, so you hit fuck it and got out of bed to get an early start on planning what to do next.. 

You wanted to leave, but then again, guilty women don’t run. But you were guilty weren’t you. You’d spent two years killing people, and when you had been under  _ their _ care you had done terrible things, even if you had tried to minimize them. You knew Black Widow’s story, you knew The Winter Soldier’s story. You knew about as much as the next person did once Black Widow had released those Hydra files to the world, those files had been literally all over the fucking news. You knew how similar their beginnings were with your own. But they had turned out to be good people, they had broken free of slavery and were working to overcome their past. What had you done? Spent two years on the run with your lover before spending another two as an assassin that brutalized people.  _ Great fucking job (Y/N) _ . 

You cracked your knuckles to relieve some of the stress before pulling a grey hoodie and dark blue jeans over the set of clean underwear you had just put on. The fact of the matter was this; regardless of whether or not you were guilty of killing those S.H.I.E.LD. agents, the Avengers were going to be looking for you, so you would have to leave. Chances are they wouldn’t stop hunting you, but living in the same fucking city as them wasn’t going to help you. So you would need to pack your shit up and go. The black market was easier to get to than most people thought. It would be easy to pretend to be a normal person looking to get to a foreign country, people did that shit all the time. Supplies. You’d need to buy supplies first. Never eat anything when traveling on the black market that  _ you _ hadn’t bought or made specifically unless you want to wake up with your jeans around your ankles and someone trying to drag you into a cargo container with a bunch of scared kids to sell you off. You had found a cage full of teenage boys and girls once. Had a conversation with the guy in charge of them. That hadn’t ended well for him. Ended well for the kids though.

In the corner of your room there was a travel bag full of notes. You only ever created bank accounts when you needed to pay for something, then you immediately closed them. Paranoia. You stuffed some notes into your jeans pockets, the pocket on the front of your hoodie, you even stuffed some down your bra. You put on combat boots over a pair of grey socks and wondered what weapon to take with you, just in case. You never usually considered taking anything out of the flat, but this was hardly usual. You settled for hiding your combat knife in the boot on your dominant side, hoping you wouldn’t need it. It had only been a ten of hours after all. What was the chances they would have found out your identity and where you would be? 

***

You had spent four hours walking to try and clear your head. It didn’t work. All walking aimlessly had accomplished was increasing on the amount of people already awake and going about their business. It had officially been fourteen hours since you had heard that report. You wondered if they had accomplished anything in those fourteen hours. The sky was overcast and a cold wind was blowing, making you glad for your thick hoodie and slightly puzzled that the weather matched your mood so perfectly. You pulled your sleeves down even lower, making sure they were covering your wrists. You knew how you had gotten most of your scars, the ones crisscrossing your back had been from lashings from a whip tipped with a sharp piece of iron, the numerous overlapping scars of various lengths on your limbs and torso being a combination of different types of torture; knives being dragged along your skin, hot pokers piercing you, a few large indents from where you had been shot a couple of times, etc. Personally, one set of scars stood out among the rest. Around your wrists and ankles there were a matching set of thin bracelet-like scars. Two on each wrist and two on each ankle, tell tale markers of where manacles had been clamped around them and the edges had dug in so many times in the past. The skin between the parallel scars was smooth and unblemished. Ryan had never drawn attention to your scars. In fact, it seemed he had made great pains to ignore them. You didn’t know how you felt about that really, sometimes wishing you could of talked about it without being shut down. When you had had sex it had always been with the light off, and he always made sure to cover you up immediately when you had transformed even if you were in the comfort of the home you’d shared with him. He’d never held back your hair when you had been retching up waterfalls of blood after spending the night killing the agents that came to reclaim you both. Nobody was perfect, you supposed.

It was difficult to resist looking over your shoulder every five minutes. You knew what the first rule of being on the run was; don’t make it look like you were on the run. Just because it was unlikely that people would suspect that someone as unassuming as you was the assassin everyone was looking for didn’t mean that peering over your shoulder was going to help your case. It only fueled your paranoia, making you see a flash of red hair, a glint off of a shield in the rooftops, etc. Someone was selling toy bows and arrows and you had almost lost your mind. God it really did feel as though you were losing it. Of all the times that numbness had to be gone, now was the time?! Typical. Of course it would leave when you were on the verge of completely freaking out about being in a situation where you were relatively helpless.  _ Deep breaths (Y/N). Deep breaths _ . 

You walked past a newspaper stand that had begun to gather a crowd, only to stop in your tracks and turn back to stare at the headline like you were looking at your own grave.

_ Assassin Confirmed to be Female and Staying in New York. _

You paid for the paper and walked as you read it, making sure to avoid people using your peripheral vision.

_While_ _the DNA samples found do not match anyone in any available database it has been confirmed that the culprit is in fact female._

DNA samples? No, you always made sure there was nothing that could have given you away. You had been trained to leave no traces anywhere you had visited. Where? Where the fuck could they have possibly gotten DNA? And how the fuck had they made this much progress in fourteen hours? It was the goddamn headline. You stopped at a few more news stands, horrified to note that they all had similar headlines. Bigger crowds were beginning to form around those little news stands, pedestrians exchanging worried glances and hopeful remarks about how quickly you would be caught. Like a rat in a trap. 

_ The timing and location of the recent murders has lead the authorities to believe that the assassin had recently been staying in New York. However, since the Avengers have members that have experience with being assassins, they have suggested that she may be using New York as a long term base. _

It took every ounce of willpower not to crush that newspaper with all of your considerable strength. Okay, them guessing that you lived here was fair enough, you could see how anyone would come to that conclusion if they knew the tricks of the trade. But that didn’t stop a new wave of panic from crashing down your mental barriers and threatening to drown you. You were so caught up in your emotions that you had stopped focusing on being able to walk straight. Your feet became tangled, and before you knew it you were sprawled across the ground, the newspaper sheets becoming separated and spreading out on the pavement around you and threatening to blow away in the wind. Your teeth clamped down on your tongue.

“Shit!”

You put your palms flat on the Earth, deciding that, despite it still being early, this was one of the worst days of your life. To recap; next to no sleep, constant paranoia and panic, Avengers were getting scarily close to finding out your identity in what had only been a few fucking hours, skinned knees, and your tongue was throbbing. You were beginning to lose your temper. Your front pocket felt lighter, some of the notes had slipped out. But they were either being picked up by passersby or fluttering away in the wind. 

Whatever.

You had tons. 

You gathered up the rest of the newspaper, only to get fed up with looking at that fucking headline and giving in to your desire. You scrunched it up and threw it furiously into the first bin you came across, almost wanting to light it on fire. If anyone asked, the crossword was too difficult. At this rate you'd be captured by the end of the week. You sighed deeply, scrubbing your face with calloused hands as you finally went off to buy supplies. Oh, what you wouldn’t give for that numbness to return. 

***

You had packed your bags, given a generous amount of money to your landlord, and found that you were unable to sleep again. The boat wouldn’t be leaving until tomorrow evening, which was fair. Even black market agents had to organise trips. You turned on the news again to see if there were any developments in your case, only to come to the conclusion that your thought from this morning had been right as the same reporter from last night revealed a new crucial factor in the case. 

This was the worst day of your life.  

 

Authors Note:

Things are beginning to escalate! I hope you're all still enjoying it.


	5. Out Of The Frying Pan And Into The Fire

Another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had been found mutilated in his home.

Except this one had been found alive.

Keyword: found.

Oh god.  _ Oh god _ . He’d died in the hospital, his injuries too great for the doctors to be able to do anything. You knew those kinds of injuries, you’d inflicted so many of them. The kind that you couldn’t come back from, the kind where there was only one outcome. The real torture was the inevitability; the idea that you were alive, but no matter what you did, you wouldn’t stay that way. Add that on to the agony of a million injuries. . . not a good way to die. It was the kind of death you give someone who is used to crushing those weaker than them under their boots. It was the kind of death you give someone who wasn't used to people fighting back and always got their own way. 

He’d lasted long enough for the Avengers to get to his home, to scout the area for clues and come up with nothing. Long enough for Scarlet Witch to look into his head and watch his memory of what happened.

The end result was you staring at the TV as they brought up a perfect police sketch of your face. Your stomach dropped right into your feet, and you felt your eye twitch as you stared and stared at that drawing. It only showed you from the neck up, so no scars were visible. It was perfect, if only a couple of years younger. Hey, you hadn’t changed that much. Your hair length and build had stayed the same.

Okay, there were a couple of things wrong with this situation:

  1. You hadn’t been killing S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.
  2. You had never met the man who’d died.
  3. Somehow, they had a perfect drawing of your face.



This was bad, this was really bad. All the fear and and panic you had felt seeing that newspaper this morning was nothing compared to how you felt now. There were people here that knew what you looked like. Everyone that you encountered would know that you were the one that had killed all those people, think that you were the one that killed those former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Everyone who had cared about the people you had actually killed would know what you looked like. Two years of careful work, all down the drain. But on the bright side, it didn’t look like they knew that you could shift. Yeah, that was hardly the bright-side. It was more like when it was getting dark outside and one side of a building was cast in shadow and the other wasn’t. Yeah, this was more like the dark side that was slightly lighter.

One thing was for damn sure, you couldn’t stay here for a second longer. Your landlord may have kept quiet about the bloody vomit clogging the toilet, but he probably wouldn’t keep quiet about this. And there were probably more than a few people around here that wanted to get even with you in some way, you know, due to the fact that you had kicked the ever-loving shit out of them at one time or another. There were probably people contacting the authorities right this moment, so time was of the essence.

It was dark outside, and exhaustion had suddenly slammed into you like an oncoming train, a combination of lack of sleep and some of the worst news imaginable being dumped on you. There wasn’t even time to do anything else, there were still dishes in the sink and weapons all over the place. You had planned to clean up a bit before you left, and pack the weapons away afterwards. All the clothes you owned and supplies you need had already been packed away into a black travel bag, so you stuffed some of the smaller weapons such as your sais and some daggers, opting to leave the bigger ones and just get new ones whenever you could. You still wore your outfit from this morning, complete with the serrated hunting knife tucked away into your boot. You had no guns. You had always just picked them up off of a fallen guard or something like that.

You shut the windows and walked to the front door, needing to get out of this block of flats as quickly as possible, but still taking the time to be quiet. Opening the door slowly to make sure there were no creaks, you crept into the hallway, again making sure you were being careful with the door. You would have left through the window, but they didn’t open nearly far enough for you to shimmy yourself out, let alone a heavy travel bag that was slung across your shoulder. Oh god, you wished you had the numbness to help you, instead of this combination of fear, panic, and anxiety. You left the keys to that little flat at your landlords door, placing them very carefully on the threshold.

Your kept your footsteps light as you hurried down the hallway, hood up. You could have convinced yourself that this was all a bad dream, but you knew what those felt like. It didn’t matter how much you wished you could wake up screaming and feeling the oncoming approach of the numbness, it wasn’t going to happen. You rushed down the stairs faster than you ever had before, reaching the front door in record time. A door creaked open upstairs, but there was only the slight shuffle of feet as your key was picked up and they shut the door again. You had the sneaking suspicion that, despite the fact that you had been quiet, they had known when you left and had given you time to go. You had left them just over half of your money pile, both to make sure you could fit your clothes into the same travel bag as the notes and to make sure they would have enough to survive on when you left. Maybe this was there way of saying thank you for everything. You supposed you had just assumed the worst about them. You did that a lot. With a shaky hand, you clasped the handle and walked out into the night, the cool air doing nothing to help your tiredness.

It would have been easy to turn into a raven and try to fly away into the night, but having no clothes or supplies or money would not be a good way to start a new life abroad. You decided that going to the UK was a bad idea, they would definitely have had your police sketch on the news. Your only option right now was to hitchhike and hope that no one was up to date on the news while you made your way to a third world country or something. You’d have to be quick though, this new development would spread like wildfire. Maybe you could-

One thing you had forgotten about yourself was that you occasionally got lost in your own thoughts. For the past two years the numbness had completely kept that habit away, but now it appeared as though it was back, since you were so caught up in what you were planning to do you tripped over you own feet and went sprawling on the pavement.

Again.

Your travel bag landed heavily on your back, and you raised your head from the ground to set your jaw in annoyance as you stared down the alley you had landed next to. “Thank god no one saw that.”

You let out a huff and made to get up when the hairs on the back of your neck stood to attention. You trusted your instincts, they had never failed you before. Someone else was here. You continued getting up and dusted yourself off, looking for all the world like you were just recovering from a tumble. They hadn’t given themselves away, but you could feel them. They were very, very close. If someone caught you now they would have the advantage. Your lack of sleep would eventually make your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. It was a trap even the most experienced could fall into, and you had let your fear do it to you. How much time had it been since you had seen your sketch on the news? About half an hour? With some of the technology the Avengers had at their disposal could it be possible that they had made it here without you realizing? Probably. Tony Stark was a genius after all.  

You scanned the rooftops, searching. You jumped as the alley to your left echoed with the sounds of metal being hit. You looked back into the alley. There were metal bins at the very end, something moving behind them. You crept over. Closer. Closer. Closer. Closer until you were standing directly in front of them. You kicked a bin out of the way and got into a fighting stance-

Only to be confronted with a black cat with a nasty scar travelling down from its left temple and across its nose to stop at the right side of its jaw. You exhaled and relaxed, wanting to kick yourself at how afraid you had been over a cat. Looks like your instincts weren’t what they once were. The cat was small. Small enough to still technically be classed as a kitten, making the amount of racket it had made pretty impressive. It prowled out of the shadows to rub itself against your legs, it’s amber eyes glowing in the dark while it stared up at you. After a moment of consideration you knelt down and gave it a scratch behind the ears. A tomcat. He purred and nuzzled into your hand. He was skinny, you observed. He’d probably been looking for something to eat in the rubbish bins. 

“Sorry dude, I can’t take you with me.”

He ignored you and nuzzled even further, demanding affection. Eh, you supposed you could stay for a minute just to pet this cat. You smiled. A little smile, but a smile nonetheless. You tenderly stroked a thumb down the thick slash across his face. Fur didn’t grow on the pink scar, making it stand out all the more against his midnight fur. You could tell that it wasn’t the kind of scar received in a fight, and there were no other scars to give any indication that he had been fighting.

“Who gave you that scar?”

The cat stood up on its hind legs, using your knees for support with its front paws. God, this was a cute cat. He headbutted your chest as you continued to stoop over him. It was almost as if he knew you were in a bad situation and wanted to make you feel better, even if it ate up time.

“Your not supposed to name things you can’t keep, or you get attached.”

He wasn’t listening, he just let you stroke your hands over his sleek back as he purred loudly.

“Jinx seems like a good name though.”

Jinx seemed to like it, since he purred even louder. You briefly considered putting him in your hoodie pocket, but there was no way you could take care of him on the run.

“I’ve got to go Jinx.”

He yowled in protest when you stood up, and even made to follow you, but he stopped and hissed. His back arched and he started screaming at the end of the alleyway. He spat.

Something in the air changed.

Indeed, the hairs on the back of your neck had decided to stand up again. Maybe that presence you had felt before wasn’t due to Jinx hiding in the alley. You crouched down, pulling your knife out of your boot. You considered the weight of your travel bag for a moment. If it came to blows it was a very real possibility that you were going to have to ditch it. You’d put some cash in your pockets again just in case. You slid your knife up the sleeve of your hoodie, hiding it from view and being very careful so that the serrated edge wouldn’t nick your wrist. There was no reason to add to your extensive collection of scars.

Straightening yourself out, you walked nonchalantly down the alleyway, the embodiment of confidence that was entirely put on. Turning into a raven and flying away was a last resort. It would indeed take time to dig your way out from under your clothes, and you hadn’t flown in ages. Last resort.

Jinx walked on with you, still making threatening noises. Well, whoever was hiding knew you that you were aware of them now. You reached the mouth of the alley and peered out.

No one.

The buildings on either side of you weren’t very tall, you realized. Short enough for someone to climb up one of the drainpipes and hide. If they were good at it it would be completely silent.

You looked up.

And leaped out of the way as a figure jumped down from the roof and landed right where  you had been standing. 

 

Authors Note:

I'm excited to write the next one! Get ready for a fight scene! xx

 


	6. Unwelcome Encounters

You had leaped forward under the light of the next streetlight over, meaning your back was turned and you couldn’t see who it was behind you. You were dimly aware of the sound of Jinx darting back down the alleyway in fright. Slowly, ever so slowly, you turned your head to look over your shoulder, taking your hood down to get a better view of the figure behind you. He was obviously male, with a muscular figure that looked as though it could attract more than a little bit of female attention. The place you had been standing had been shrouded in shadows, so while you were unable to actually make out any distinct features, you could still see that he had landed in a crouched position with his left fist striking the ground. He flexed his fingers as he gracefully rose to stand at his full height, six foot at the very least. Six foot of hard muscle that leaked experience and grace.

You were rooted to the spot as he stepped into the dim glow of the streetlight closest to him, and the darkness between the two of you might as well have been a chasm as your eyes traveled up and down his body to reach a conclusion regarding his identity.

Long brown hair fell over his face, and his eyes reminded you of a storm. They were so blue. So, so blue. He wore a dark outfit, his jacket covering both of his arms but leaving his hands exposed, revealing the contrast between his metal fist and his flesh one. It was a permanent reminder of his past. You felt a twinge of sympathy. You hadn’t felt that in a while. He wasn’t strapped with weapons, but this wasn’t a kill mission. Besides, he was a weapon in his own right.

You stared into the eyes of Bucky Barnes, A.K.A. The Winter Soldier and best friend to Captain America.

There was no fear, but you had to admit, the anger in his eyes was enough to wrack your nerves, especially as he kept the rest of his face cold. He was angry at you. Probably because he thought you’d mutilated innocent people for no apparent reason. If he was here to capture you. . . there was no way he was alone. But you didn’t feel anyone else here, and you were usually good at sensing things like that. He may have struck out on his own to capture you quickly, or backup could be coming right at this very moment. Maybe he was here to test the waters and wear you down.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to knock me out from a distance with a tranquilizer or something?”

You let the travel bag fall slowly to the ground. This part of the city was basically deserted, and anyone who was here had no way to share the news that two assassins were fighting. This part of the city was basically short and wide ramshackle buildings separated every so often by alleys of varying width.

“It would have. But someone like you probably would have been able to see that coming from a mile away.” 

He was right. You’d managed to avoid being drugged several before, a couple of times you had even outrun darts that had been shot at you. Okay, so that had been as an animal but the achievement was there. You turned around to face him, keeping your guard up in case anyone else appeared. Where was everyone? You had never heard of an Avenger doing anything alone. It was enough to set you on edge. It was always a mistake to underestimate anyone, regardless of what they looked and acted like. That was something they were smart enough to know.

Just like you were smart enough to know that this wasn’t going to end without a fight.

“I didn’t kill those agents.”

He didn’t believe you. Fair enough. You didn’t think that you would have believed you either. You readied yourself, getting back into a fighting stance. His eyes didn’t change, anger still simmered. You could tell, he hated you. Could you blame him?

You kept the arm with the knife angled behind you. For a long moment, you just stared at each other, the tension beginning to stretch taut until it was almost unbearable.

“Come on then,” you taunted. “Show me what you’re made of.”

He moved so fast that you could barely register him until he was standing under the same light as you. A hand struck out like a snake to grab you by the neck. You ducked under his flesh arm and shoved your shoulder into his solid gut, putting as much strength as you could muster into the move. The force of it sent you both backwards back to the glow of the original streetlight he had been under. You jumped backwards before he could grab you and launched a kick aimed for his skull. You weren’t prepared for the human hand that caught your foot in a vice-like grip. You were still for a moment, your eyes widening as you processed what had just happened. You were still in the middle of your kick, and his grip tightened even further as he twisted your foot. You were tired, your reactions slightly slower than usual. So when he released your foot only to immediately use his own to sweep the leg you had been balancing on out from under your feet it came as something of a shock. You landed heavily on your back, and there was no time before he was kneeling over you with a knee planted in the space between your legs. You felt metal fingers clamp themselves around your throat. He squeezed. A choked gasp escaped from your lips as he strangled you. As much as you hated to admit it, this metal arm was definitely stronger than you.

He raised a flesh finger to his ear, “I got her.”

 _I don’t think so_. Before he could restrain you in any way, you did a manoeuvre you had practiced a million times. You slid your knife out of your sleeve and gripped the handle tightly before driving it deep into his thigh. He cried out in surprise and pain. You twisted. His grip loosened. It was enough. You wrenched his hand free of your neck and ripped the knife out of his thigh, earning another cry of pain. Using all of your freaky strength you threw his heavy body off of yours. He reached out again, but you rolled out of the way and shot to your feet, running faster than you had in years as you slowed momentarily to pick up your travel bag.

Then you felt it. There were definitely more of them now.

But you ran and you ran, faster than you had ran in years. Someone appeared in the street before you, forcing you to skid to a halt. They had been on their way over to where you and the Winter Soldier had been fighting. Oh god, that figure. . . you had just stabbed his best friend. He got ready to throw the shield, and you turned and ran. Or tried to. You didn't even make a quarter turn. Someone had now appeared behind you while you were distracted, she must have ran ahead and hidden. You froze as pale hands appeared on either side of your head, the red energy seeming to travel between your ears. You froze, going completely limp and dropping the travel bag as Scarlet Witch wound her power into your mind. Further and further until-

Until she came up against a wall.

“Mind tricks don’t work on me witch.”

You brought your elbow up sharply against her nose. The crack echoed throughout the street as her head whipped back and she fell on her ass, giving out a cry of pain.

“Wanda!”

You just had enough time to duck as the shield was thrown at you. It hadn’t been going fast enough to kill, but that would have broken a few ribs and further hindered your progress. The knife was still in your hand, the blade, handle, and your hand still covered with The Winter Soldiers blood. There was a stain on your thigh where some of his blood had spurted. Eh, he’d be fine. You were pretty sure he had a healing factor of sorts.

Well, going towards Captain America wasn’t an option, so you instead ran towards one of the buildings and scurried up the drain pipe. You had to leave the travel bag, that man ran fast and was in the midst of getting his shield back via presumed magnets on his forearm.

The buildings were different sizes, but the difference between them in terms of height and leaping distance was small enough that they weren’t that difficult to travel across. You wished you had been able to shift. The wolf was better for long distance running in the street while the tiger was good for leaping. The raven obviously would have made a quick getaway, but again, digging your way out of your clothes was much more difficult as opposed to just having them rip to shreds because of the drastic change in size and body shape.

You kept running, aware of the presence of others around you. Your own energy was flagging since you had been relying on adrenaline, and you knew Captain America had almost limitless droves of energy. And it wouldn’t just be three people sent for you, would it?

You were right.

The alleyway in front of the roof you were racing across had hidden her from you in your mad dash, but as you made to leap across the gap, she struck out from her hiding place clinging onto a drainpipe and shot something at you. A thin rope lashed out and wrapped around your ankles, tripping you up and making you fall into the alley. You landed on your front after slamming into the wall, the air being knocked out of you and your palms being scraped open. The knife fell out of your hands about a foot away, and Black Widow leaped down from her vantage point. They must have told her where you were running, she must have been waiting for you for a while as you blindly rushed in one direction. You spun towards the knife as she landed, gripping the handle as she darted towards you.

You were quick, putting your joined feet into the air and slamming them into her chest. While she flew backwards you sliced through the rope and jumped to your feet, angling the knife. She came towards you. You slashed the knife, but she dodged with what could only be described as an assassins grace. The Winter Soldier had it, she had it, you had it. You had never seen Hawkeye fight in any way except for brief clips on the news but you could only assume that he had it.

She grabbed your wrist and slammed her palm down on your elbow, forcing your arm to bend as she forced it behind your back and twisted your wrist. You held firm on the knife as she forced you to her knees, her head so close that you could feel her curled hair against your neck. You kept your other hand low to the ground, dropping the knife into it and making to jab it into her thigh like you had done with the Winter Soldier. There was nowhere for her to go unless she gave you some slack. She did the same thing the Winter Soldier did, released the pressure enough for you to manoeuvre yourself. She still gripped your wrist, but your arm was no longer twisted. You spun to face her, meaning to stab her in the arm.

You didn’t expect her to let go, and didn’t expect to feel the looming presence of Captain America at the mouth of the alley. She had backed away now. 

This wasn’t good, they had effectively trapped you between them. You were really good, but taking on two Avengers would be difficult. Especially when you were trapped in a thin alley with them on either side of you. Maybe you could climb up the drainpipe? A stupid, idiotic idea popped into your head.

“Today just isn’t my day.”

You threw the knife at Black Widow, distracting her as you ran towards Captain America, still not considering shifting. He put his shield up. This would be a gamble. You ran up the alley, jumped off the side of the wall, put your foot on his shield, and used your momentum to carry yourself over him. You didn’t make it as far as you would have liked. Your tiredness made sure you didn’t get the required momentum, and you landed scarily close to him. Close enough for him to be able to turn as you desperately made to run away.

Your gamble hadn’t paid off. He was too fast. He slammed his shield flat into your back, sending you flying. You didn’t catch yourself, you just fell to the ground and started rolling until you were on your aching back, staring at the gloomy night sky. His massive figure loomed over you. And you had thought the Winter Soldier had been a big man. As you continued to stare at the sky, completely devoid of energy, you felt the numbness creep back in.   


 

Authors Note:

Now things are getting interesting.

And now you guys can stew over the fact that you stabbed Bucky in the thigh and broke Wanda’s nose.


	7. A Brief Conversation

To say that Bucky Barnes was pissed off that you had managed to injure him so badly and so quickly was an understatement. To say that Wanda Maximoff was surprised that you had managed to shut her out was an understatement. To say that Natasha Romanoff was annoyed that you had actually been capable of keeping up with her and had kicked her in the chest was an understatement. And to say that Steve Rogers was relieved that they had caught you was, you guessed it, an understatement.

They’d panicked ever so slightly when they’d seen your eyes close, fearing that you’d poisoned yourself to avoid being questioned. That hadn’t been the case. They’d just discovered that you’d fallen into a deep sleep, which was a bit odd. Waking you up now would be pointless, this made it so much easier to move you, and no one enjoyed interrogating a zombie. Oh, little did they know. . .  

Wanda held on to her nose, her head ringing and her surprise and frustration mixing together into a volatile mix. Bucky had ripped the right sleeve of his jacket and tied it just above the stab wound to staunch the bleeding, also a little surprised at the situation. He would definitely need stitches, it was hard enough having to lean on Natasha and Wanda for support after limping here. Natasha rubbed her chest with her free hand, the long-term pain of being kicked in the chest finally catching up to her. Steve stared down at you, there was no peace on your face. This was something else. If it hadn’t been for the steady rise and fall of your chest, he would have thought that they had accidentally killed you. He looked at the hand coated with his best friend’s blood before picking you up bridal style. A deep sleep like the one you were in would not be easy to get out of, but you had a lot to answer for.

***

Your back still hurt from where it had been smacked with a disc of vibranium, but you were really only distantly aware of the pain. The numbness was back completely, and you once again wore the face of a dead woman. You’d finally succumbed to the exhaustion when you’d laid down in that street like a dog, and you had woken up in a white interrogation room with high tech handcuffs attached to a white table. Your sleeves had only been adjusted so the cuffs could fit around your wrists, so the only scars visible were one thin band at the top of each wrist, their parallel twins hidden. Your feet had been chained to the hard chair. Caught like a rat in a trap. Turning into the anaconda would have remedied this problem, but then what? You would still be stuck in this room with your secret revealed. It didn’t matter, you just stared and stared at the mirrored glass with a blank look on your face and a deadness in your eyes. The only sign of life in your unconscious state had stayed constant when you had woken up: the steady rise and fall of your chest.

The room induced a slight feeling of claustrophobia, given how shut off it was. But it was big enough that your fear was only a niggling thought in the back of your head. You had absentmindedly wondered if they’d checked under your clothes for weapons, but something told you that these people probably had more high tech ways of checking for dangerous weapons on your person. You’d smuggled weapons into seemingly secure, paranoid locations before and they were nothing compared to what the Avengers had access to, but even if you’d have thought you could, you hadn’t hidden anything else except for the serrated knife.

You still had dried blood on your dominant hand, the splatter on your thigh had dried black. Earlier, you hadn’t noticed the stain on your elbow from where you had struck Scarlet Witch, but it had glued the fabric of your hoodie to your elbow. The Winter Soldier’s blood was flaking off, and if you could feel anything you would have felt guilty about injuring him like that, regardless of the fact that he would probably be alright shortly. You had essentially stamped on Black Widow’s chest, but she could take it. Scarlet Witch would heal from a broken nose in a couple of weeks.

You didn’t know how long you’d sat slouched in the hard chair with the deadness in your eyes, barely registering anything. You were only distantly aware of someone coming in and saying something before waving their hand in front of your eyes in an attempt to snap you out of your self-inflicted trance. You didn’t snap to attention, just continued staring at your reflection without actually seeing it. They pulled a chair out, and even in your distant state you were forced to note how big he was. Looks like Captain America was going to try and get a one-on-one with you. Why? If they were so firmly planted in the belief that you’d killed those former agents then why would they even want to have a conversation with you? Had the Winter Soldier told them that you’d said you hadn’t killed those agents? Eh, you didn’t care. If this was your fate then so be it. You’d tried to keep that promise to Ryan, but certain things were out of your control.

Someone else came in then, and you knew that swagger from the countless times he had spoken on the news. Tony Stark, looking like he’d been in his workshop. He looked like he hadn’t slept in three days, the dark tank top and baggy black jeans still had wet patches of oil. He was covered in sweat and soot, but had a commanding presence. He oozed charisma, it was one of the things that made him attractive. He was a lot more muscular than he looked. 

Stark leaned against the far right wall and crossed his bare arms over the hole in his chest. “It’s not everyday we get to accommodate a serial killer. Except for Barnes. He is here everyday.”

“Stark,” the Captain warned over his shoulder.

“Lighten up I’m joking. About him being a serial killer that is. He really is here everyday.”

So you were in the Avengers Tower. They had interrogation rooms? Was that legal? Even if it was, it seemed like something that would be kept on subterranean levels, making it more difficult to escape in the event of a breakout. Whatever, you were only vaguely aware of the conversation and had no intention of trying to escape.

“Is she dead? Hard to believe she could of stabbed Barnes, knocked Wanda on her ass and take on Natasha.”

The Captain took on a look that a parent might get when their kid is being annoying. “I’ve seen stranger things.”

What exactly was the dynamic between these two? Were they even friends? The Captain focused those intense blue eyes on you again, as if he was trying to solve a mysterious puzzle. You still hadn’t moved anything, barely even blinking.

“What’s your name?”

“(Y/N). (Y/N) (L/N).”

You got the distinct impression that it surprised both of them to hear your voice, as dead as it was. You didn’t see the point in lying to them. Stark clapped, to anyone else he may have been annoying. 

He pointed at you, “See this Cap, progress. The sadistic serial killer is beginning to open up.”

You turned your eyes to him fully, and he stopped. He got a full view of your face, and you could see that he was staring at your eyes. Big. Empty. Eyes. And you got the distinct impression that he was slightly afraid of them. He covered it up well though, the only thing to indicate lingering discomfort being how quickly he looked away. You focused your eyes back on the Captain, who seemed entirely unfazed by your eyes. As if he had seen them before.  

“Is there a point to this meeting?” It was a genuine question, maybe it sounded sarcastic due to your dead tone.

He crossed his own arms over his thick chest. Under normal circumstances, he seemed as though he could be great fun to hang out with, he had the kind of eyes that looked like they smiled a lot, if that made sense. These were not normal circumstances, and he didn’t feel anything for you. You could feel enough hate for two people somewhere in the void though.

“You know why you’re here.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Blunt, to the point.

“Bucky mentioned something you said right before. . .”

“If you’re referring to me claiming to be innocent in regards to the murders of those former agents, it was the truth.” Much like the Winter Soldier, he didn’t believe you. “I did kill all those guilty people though. Every one of them.”

“Why do you get to decide who the guilty are?”

“Someone who sells little boys online to old men in foreign countries seems guilty enough to me.”

“Well, at least she's been mostly particular in who she mutilates,” Stark piped up, apparently finding his silver tongue again.

The Captain turned to fix him with a glare.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Mostly?” You interjected numbly. “In the past four years I’ve never killed a person who didn’t have it coming. If killing bad people makes me a bad person then so be it. I can’t explain to you what Miss Maximoff saw, but it wasn’t me.”

You were a slight contradiction, you had meant what you said but the complete lack of fire behind it. . . 

The Captain raised a brow. “Only in the past four years?”

Shit. A loose kernel of worry fidgeted in your gut for a second before stilling again. You stayed silent, not wanting to divulge any particular details about your past. Everybody has a tragic backstory if you look hard enough.

Captain America just sighed, “About the animal-”

The door to the room slammed open abruptly. A tallish man with dark skin and a gap in his white teeth was standing in the doorway, panting. Falcon. He’d ran here. Whatever he’d interrupted this meeting for was evidently important. 

The Captain stood, “Sam what’s wrong?”

Even the Iron Man straightened up at the look on Falcon’s face. You turned your eyes towards him, and he stopped for only a second as he caught the void in your eyes. Again, this news was more important. A vague hint of curiosity was beginning to crawl towards the foremost area of your mind. You let it, figuring that it couldn’t be that bad.

“Cap, another agents dead. It’s fresh too.”

Your entire face changed at that. You sat up straight as your eyes widened and your lips parted in. . .  You didn’t know what it was. Hope? Confusion?

Cap looked at you briefly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it, before walking out of the room with Falcon in tow. 

Stark made to follow, but he stopped short in the middle of his exit. “Just in case you're wondering, we had scheduled to let the world know you’d been captured. Tomorrow.”   

You were left alone with this news. Even in your state of numbness, the shock hit you hard. The relief followed, which made you hate yourself. The numbness would come back quickly, but for now, you had a concoction of emotions swirling together. The path ahead was so unclear, they may have reason to doubt you had killed those agents, but you were still a murderer. But still, there was hope on the horizon.  
  
  


Authors Note:

Ugh, characterization.

There is only so many individual responses I can give to comments so I can't respond to all of them. Thank you all so much for all the kind words! They really do make my day. I’m really glad you’re all enjoying it so much. I try to respond to comments but even if I don't just know that seeing a new one pop up makes me really happy. 


	8. A Deal

Once again you were left to stare into space for what you estimated to be a couple of hours at the very least. You cracked your knuckles once or twice, the loud clicks being the only sound in the white room besides your own breathing. You wondered if the colour of the room was deliberate, and you wondered who was watching you. There was no way they would leave a dangerous assassin unguarded. Even though you had no plans to fight, you wondered what would happen if you decided to go on the warpath. What would the damage be? Would you fight as a tiger, a wolf, or a woman? Maybe even a snake. You supposed you’d never know.

You wished that you had been able to partially shift, having a wolf’s sense of hearing or smell would have been handy. You had never been able to do it, regardless of how often you had tried. If you wanted something one of your animal forms had, then a full shift was required. It was bullshit, but it had never hindered you in your job. 

You looked down at your hands, the nails had been kept short to avoid hindering you in your job and exercises, and it was the only part of your body you had maintained regularly. You should start letting them grow, just to see what they would look like. You doubted you were going to get much work and training anymore, so letting them grow out wouldn't be that much of an annoyance anymore. 

The door opened again, and you couldn’t help your eyes travelling slightly to study the people in the doorway. The Captain was back, wearing his suit as opposed to the casual clothes from earlier. It had definitely seen improvements over the years. In the battle against the Chitauri it had looked stupid and offered no protection, that was a stark contrast to the dark blue body armour with the red and white stripes running down the stomach, sides and back. He held his shield at his side, and he had such an look of utter exhaustion in his eyes that you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him for a moment. How old was he? Technically in his late nineties, but how old was he really? Early thirties? A heavy responsibility for someone so young, especially just after living in the shitshow that was World War Two and finding out that all of his friends were dead. Well, not all of them. One of them had been kidnapped and enslaved. Twice including the time his entire squad had been captured by Hydra, resulting in Captain Rogers disobeying orders to save him and his men.

As he walked into the room, Miss Romanoff followed him, curly hair bouncing. When he heavily sat down and balanced his shield against his chair, she stood off at his left. She was wearing her suit, and you wondered if there had ever been a point where she had taken it off. Did this woman ever really rest? 

“Something I can help you with Captain Rogers?”

The helmet was off, revealing messy blonde hair that was worsened by him running his hand through it. “I don’t suppose you have a block of ice that I can crawl back into?”

You shook your head.

“I don’t suppose you have an evil twin or a clone?”

“Not to my knowledge.” You paused for a second, considering something about your current situation. “You’re not being very cautious with me, Captain Rogers.”

“I knew the moment that I looked into your eyes that you weren’t going to be any trouble.”

Ouch. He got you there. You came to the realization that it was Mr Barnes that gave him this kind of experience. Mr Barnes, who had been forced to murder people for Hydra, and had been brought back by his best friend. You didn't have anyone like that. You vaguely remembered a news segment over him. The public were in outcry, not because an assassin was on the run, but because a good man had been tortured for longer than most of them had been alive and the government had want to _prosecute him?_ It had been made worse by the fact that Mr Barnes was a very famous man. A Howling Commando, he was considered a fan favourite, and people knew details about his life and personality as well as the motivations and techniques of Hydra. Very few people held him responsible for the assassinations, it was weirdly heartwarming. Helping him come back to himself had to have been a slow, numb, painful process. It made you feel slightly bad for stabbing him, somewhere in the deep pit of your soul. 

“I’m going to ask you a question Miss (L/N). Please be honest. Did someone hire you to kill those former agents?”

“No,” you whispered, making eye contact. "I would never unless they had done something."

You could see it now, he believed you. He really did. After the attack, he must have had his doubts for whatever reason, and this murder proved you had been framed. For a second you were so relieved that you didn't know what to do with yourself

“Who are you Miss (L/N)?” He asked suddenly, as if it was the most puzzling, mysterious question in the world.

“What do you mean?” You maintained your dead tone.

“It doesn’t matter, what does matter is that someone has been framing you for a recent rash of murders when you’re not on any sort of database,” Miss Romanoff interrupted. “Why?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know. Anyone who would want to do that is dead.”

“Such as?”

You didn’t deign to respond. Just resumed staring forward at absolutely nothing as she came forward and laid her palms flat against the table to put her point across.

“People are being murdered. People that we worked with. Help us find out who, and we’ll pin the murders you’ve committed in your past on them too.” 

You blinked rapidly, an indication that you had registered what she had just said. “I’m sorry, could you please elaborate?”

The Captain didn’t look happy. Of course not, he was a man with morals. He was famously steadfast in his belief in right and wrong, and he didn’t care if he was the one that was seen as the bad guy as long as he did the right thing. If something was wrong, then he wouldn’t abide by it. To some degree, it was possible that he had agreed with Mr Stark in terms of your contract kills being particular. But even if you had been an exclusive killer, he was the type to believe that murder was still wrong. 

Miss Romanoff continued, “We’re willing to forgive what you’ve done, if you help us solve this. Swear to never kill anyone again and remain under our surveillance. You can have your life back, but help us.”

“That’s where you’re wrong Miss Romanoff, I never had much of a life to begin with.”

“So you won’t help?” The Captain raised a brow as he asked.

“I never said that. I’ll help you.”

And thus, a deal was struck. You likened it to selling your soul to the devil.  

***

Your feet were freed and the cuffs were disconnected from the table, but they didn’t let you leave the chair until they had a fail-safe, a leash. The Captain raised a finger to his ear and spoke, but you blanked the words. Mr Stark came back after a few minutes, holding a small needle gun.

“Okay killer this is what’s gonna happen,” he flicked the needle gun for emphasis, “in this little gun, there is a chip. This chip is set to shock you anytime you leave the floors you’re restricted to without permission. I can adjust these settings anytime, but basically, you step out of line and your ass gets fried, and it will suck.”

You reached up to the top of your hoodie and pulled it down enough to expose your neck without exposing any scars.

“Actually I was thinking more in the arm-”

“Please just do it.”

You didn’t flinch as the needle sunk in and the tiny chip was embedded into your neck. You pulled your hoodie back up and the cuffs came off. 

You pulled your sleeves up again to hide the scars and crossed your arms over your chest. “Can someone please show me where my bed is?”

***

Natasha had begun to liken you to a zombie as she led you to the section of top floors where you would be restricted. You hadn't even made a threatening move, and if she hadn't known any better she would have thought you were about as dangerous as a sleeping kitten. Your shoulders were slouched and your arms hung useless at your sides as she lead you through the building, you looked exhausted.

She had been one of the ones to suggest the deal, and had had her doubts that you would go off tangent in terms of kills when those former agents had been found mutilated. She had said as much, and she didn’t see anything wrong with killing the kind of people you killed, but she was still cautious. Your eyes were so completely empty, and it was something she had been familiar with, to a degree. She had seen it before, felt it before, but you had such a severe case of emptiness that she wondered what a person would have to endure to come by it.

“This is your stop.” She smacked the wall beside the door for emphasis.

You looked at the door before gripping the handle, “Thank you. . . Miss Romanoff." 

The door closed with a quiet click, and Natasha was left standing alone, wondering how this would all play out.

***

You weren’t that sure how long you had been awake, but you didn’t care. Right now, all you wanted to do was sleep instead of facing the reality of your life and the direction it had suddenly gone. It appeared as though you had kept your promise to Ryan, albeit unintentionally. You crawled into a double bed softer than anything you had ever lain in before, only stopping to take your shoes and bra off and nothing else. You didn’t even really take in any details of the room, only that it was larger than your entire apartment and there was a bathroom door on the right wall. You laid your head on the pillow and let yourself fall into the abyss.    

 

 

Authors Note:

Most of my day consists of sleeping and working since school's out for the holidays. But I have a full day off tomorrow - today technically since it's just after two in the morning, and I plan to dedicate most of it to writing. 

Gotta admit I am still worried about characterization, but in the end I guess you can only ever do your best.


	9. You Look Like Hell

After recent events, you had the second worst episode of your life. You only ever got out of bed to use the toilet, you didn’t even make yourself anything to eat and you hadn’t changed your clothes in the time you’d been in bed. People had actually started leaving plates of food on your floor for you just to make sure you didn't starve, although you didn’t know who. You’d crawl out of bed and lay on your stomach as you ate off the plate and drank from a cup of water before going back to bed and going back to sleep. Anyone might of thought that they had drugged the water, but you knew better. And anyway, if they really needed your help then what would be the point of that? At some point you got your period, but you didn’t do anything about it. There was a dark stain on your crotch and thighs where you had completely bled through your jeans, and your sheets also had telltale splotches. You figured that it couldn’t be hygienic, and you hadn’t showered in ages. You didn’t care.

You didn’t keep track of meals, didn’t even register what you were eating or if it tasted good. It was probably better than the constant stream of microwaveable meals that you had been putting into your body to keep you going. 

This had been your life for a while, sleeping, eating and pissing. Yeah, you really lived the high life.

***

Maybe you would have let yourself rot in bed until someone dragged you out of it if it weren’t for that promise. That stupid fucking promise that never failed to make you feel disgusted with yourself somewhere in that gap that your soul should have been in. Was it so much to ask to be sad and alone in bed? He had made you make that promise. You’d been on a beach together, and you’d been covered up like usual despite the sun beaming down at you. He had laid his head in your lap, and you played with a brown curl that brushed against his forehead as you stared at the peaceful expression on his face.

His eyes were closed, the freckles dusting his cheeks stark against his pale skin.  _ Beautiful _ . How could a person be so beautiful? You were certain that no one could look nearly as gorgeous as he did. In this moment, with him lying here with you and the sun shining down and the waves making a melodic crashing sound, you were so happy and relaxed. Even if you were on the run.

“(Y/N)?” He broke the reverie that you were under. 

“Hm?”

He hadn’t opened his eyes as he spoke to you with a calming voice, “Do you love me?”

What a stupid question. You’d killed people for him. You'd covered up your scars for him. Every time you looked at him your heart did cartwheels and butterflies had a moshpit in your stomach. He really had a way of turning you into a gooey mess. So, of course you loved him, why would he ask that?

“You know I do.”

“Prove it.”

A mischievous smile had worked its way onto your face as you said, “And how would you like me to do that?”

There as a beat of silence, a beat that your mind used to work up all kinds of scenarios. They were both good and bad.

“Promise me something.”

Your grin faltered a little bit at that. “A promise?”

His eyes opened to show the emerald irises, a calloused hand moved to brush a thumb along your cheekbone in a display of naked affection that made your heart flutter.

“Promise me that, whatever happens, you’ll live.”

That sounded like trouble. “What could happen?”

“Just promise me.”

You could never say no to him. Everything he did was irresistible.

“I promise.”

You sealed your promise with a deep kiss. It was romantic, like something out of a storybook. Too good to be true. 

Snapping back to reality, you came to the unwelcome conclusion that this wasn’t living. Lying in bed with dried blood on your crotch and thighs didn’t count as living. At least when you had been on your own with nothing but a void you had actually had a routine, you didn’t let yourself sleep  _ all _ day. Fine. Fucking fine. You would get out of bed, have a shower and make yourself something to eat but that was all that you were willing to commit to at the moment.  _ Baby steps (Y/N) _ .

You were not here to make friends. You were not here to rediscover yourself like some shitty protagonist in a shitty coming of age novel. You were here to catch another killer so that you could go back to a routine of eating, sleeping and training. Even if you would have to find another source of income. You weren’t worried, that was a feeling usually swallowed by the void unless circumstances were dire.

You turned, looking at a digital clock on a nightstand on the right side of your bed. Bright letters told you that it was two in the morning, and they were accompanied by a date in smaller numbers and letters underneath. September tenth.  _ Holy shit _ . Two weeks. You’d been laying in bed for two weeks. Well, at least everybody should be asleep at this time. And you had to admit, you were hungry. You sat up amongst the soft pillows and tangled quilt, and finally took note of the room. 

There wasn’t much to it. 

The walls were painted white and the carpet was thick and grey like a storm-cloud. You had noted the size before, but not how empty it looked since there was only the double bed in the centre of the opposite wall and a couple other pieces of furniture. On the beds right side there was an oak night stand with a digital clock and two drawers, one on top of the other. Up against the centre of the left wall there was a large chest of drawers with your travel bag sitting on top. That was it. You supposed that a normal person would want the chance to decorate and make the room something more personal, but this room matched you perfectly. Empty.

You swung stiff legs out of bed and tried to stand, only to fall heavily to your knees. Two weeks of lying in bed and crawling on the floor had depleted your strength. _Stupid, weak bitch_. Bracing yourself on the wooden bed-frame, you pushed yourself up off of the ground and forced your legs to carry you towards the bathroom door in - you guessed it- the centre of the right wall. Someone was obsessed with centering things. At some point you’d have to figure out where you could wash your clothes, a prospect that was not at all appealing. You’d have to do something to get the blood out of your jeans. You gripped the door handle, shivering as your bare toes made contact with the cold laminate floor as you stepped into the bathroom. This room was also bigger than your flat had been, the walls made of dark tile that reflected the ceiling light too brightly for your eyes. The toilet about five feet off of the centre of the right wall, the sink about a metre and a half away with a bottle of brand hand soap resting between the taps. A ring with a white hand towel looped through was drilled to the wall. In the left corner, there was a huge glass shower tucked away, and the showerhead was large enough that the water would completely cover your body. Maybe it would drown you? Next to that godly shower there was a towel rack with three white towels hanging, and in front of it there was a bathmat to stop you from trailing water across the floor. In the centre of the left wall there was a full length mirror, and it took you a moment to be able to stare blankly into it.  

You stood in front of it and were forced to face how horrendous you looked. Your hair was greasy and matted and your skin was coated in a sheen of sweat. Your clothes had practically stuck to you, and sweat stains were all over them, especially under your armpits. The black stain between your legs did nothing to improve your self image, and it underlined how disgusting you were for not dealing with it sooner. You peeled the hoodie off, the air biting at your bare skin. There were slash scars across your stomach and chest, among other types of scars such as burns from cigarettes from people too lazy to find an ashtray. You undid and took off your jeans, followed by your underwear. Your legs were exactly the same as the rest of you, even your inner thighs had scars from deep scratches, though they had never actually violated you. You had never really come to terms with the fact that you had scars, and you didn’t really pinpoint the individual ones bar from the bullet scars on your right shoulder, left thigh and your stomach. And there were scars from a special kind of torture; once they had dug hooks into your skin and dragged them out, but only once. Scars crisscrossed down the entirety of your arms and legs, varying in size and type. You turned, looking at your bare back. The rest of your body may be covered in scars, but there was still a lot of untouched skin too. Not on your back. Your back was a landscape of crisscrossed scars from an iron-tipped whip. Very little skin had been left untouched, leaving it nothing but a ruined slab of flesh. Your animal forms didn’t have scars, you weren’t sure why.

***

The water was hot, and the pressure was high. It felt so good to have the knots in your back undone by it. You hadn’t showered since you had regurgitated all of that blood and guts. It felt like years ago.

You washed the dried blood off of your inner thighs first, then the sheen of sweat from your body and the grease from your hair.  _ Clean _ . On the outside at least. You didn’t get out of the shower immediately, even when your fingers wrinkled like an old womans. The only thing to make you want to leave the downpour of hot water was your stomach emitting a loud grumble. Oh god, you were really hungry, even with the meals they left for you. So you switched the shower off and wrapped yourself up in one of the fluffy white towels on the towel rack. Dead-eyed, you dried your feet on the bathmat and ambled over to the door. 

It swung silently open, and the chill in the room was enough to raise goosebumps on your arms. You marched across  the room to grab your travel bag and dumped it on your bed, tugging the zip open. Anything sharp and pointy had been removed, so you pulled out underwear, a pair of pyjama bottoms and the over-sized t-shirt to go with them and slipped them on, making sure to drag your hairbrush through your hair before throwing on a zip-up hoodie and a pair of thick socks on the off-chance anyone was awake. No need to have anyone asking about your scars. 

Walking forward, you held onto the door knob with a grip strong enough to make the skin on your knuckles go white. Slowly, ever so slowly, you opened the door and crept out into the hallway so that you wouldn’t wake anyone up and have face them. You made your way towards the elevator and held your stomach, promising it food.  
  
  


Authors Note:

And it is up! I really need to work on my time management skills. 

Swear to god I have become completely obsessed with Connor from Detroit: Become Human. I keep reading stuff about him on this site. . . Good God, I think I have a problem. Not helped by the fact his VA looks and sounds exactly like him and is also a cutie. Can’t fucking play the game though, since I have an Xbox and not a Playstation. Considering getting one though.

God, could I sound anymore like lovesick a teenager? 

Been distracted recently because I bought Wolfenstein. It’s pretty good but I suck at it. So developing my Wolfenstein skills was high on my list. Is high on my list. 

Anyway, hope you liked this one. I wanted to have a bit more to it but that would have made it too long, and I might never have been able to upload it.


	10. A Midnight Meeting

You’d be lying if you said that the elevator doors sliding shut didn’t make you slightly nervous, they reminded you too much of a heavy coffin lid slamming shut. At least there was light in this space, as opposed to an oppressive darkness that suffocated you. You could have taken the stairs, but honestly, fuck that. You hugged your arms over your chest as the elevator sank down to the floor directly below. 

You had been told the floor above and the floor below were the only floors you were capable of going to without receiving an electric shock. A shock painful enough to stop you in your tracks and send you running to the safety of a safe floor.  Or so they thought. They didn’t know you had such a ridiculously high pain tolerance, but that wasn’t something you would discuss with anyone. Just like you would never discuss your scars, or your past, or that emptiness that had completely taken control of your mind and body like a parasite. 

If it had not been for your numbness, you would have had a strange sensation. The kind of sensation one gets when they know that something is going to happen. But you didn’t feel anything except hunger and the slight nerves that kicked in when you were in a small space with no windows. There was nothing, and you were nothing.

***

The elevator opened directly into a kitchen, and there was a door leading to the stairwell on the left hand wall about a meter away from a circular table with several chairs around it. You didn’t want to imagine everyone tired from late nights, eating breakfast, joking with each other to try and wake each other up. Did Hawkeye and Black Widow have matching pyjamas? It seemed like something that they would do. Did the Iron Man ever sleep at all? What about the God of Thunder? You had to admit to yourself, the idea of meeting an actual god was a little exciting. You used to read all kinds of mythology, and Norse mythology in particular was an interesting subject, right next to Greek Mythology.  

The wall parallel to you was all window, overlooking the city at night. It was dark, but the lights of thousands of buildings, street lamps and cars twinkled like. . . stars. How long had it been since you had looked at the stars? Would you ever stop to look at them again? Who knows. Probably not. After this messy ordeal you would go back to surviving in a state of nothing. You may do that for the rest of your life. Never look at the stars, never have sex again, hide your scars from the world, and stuff your face with microwaveable meals. 

The left wall was full, with cabinets attached to the top of the wall with metal handles and polished doors of black marble. The counter below them was made of the same marble, and on top of it there was a microwave, kettle, a mug tree, toaster, and a bread-bin. Below that counter there were even more cabinets. It wasn’t that usual given that a whole team lived in this tower. All of these cabinets were stopped just short of reaching the wall closest to you by an enormous silver fridge that was big enough to warrant double doors. Your stomach released another grumble in longing. You took note of an island in front of the cabinets. It had a counter that was also made up of the same polished black marble, and it was surrounded on each length by four cushioned stools. There was a sink in the shape of a bowl dug into the marble.  

Instead of making a beeline to the fridge like you should have done, you went towards the window. You didn’t bother to look at the stars, if there were any. Instead you put your hand on the cool glass, and looked down at the drop. You could break the window with some difficulty. And you knew that the fall would kill you from this high. But you weren’t going to kill yourself, you weren’t actually contemplating it, were you? Not with that promise. 

You rested your forehead against the clear glass, your breath creating a mist. You’d thrown someone off of a building this high before. Had sniffed him out with a wolves nose, torn chunks of him out, and dragged him kicking and screaming to a balcony. Ironically, he’d done this to people a million times before. The wolf had dragged him, and you’d turned into a human to toss him over the railing and watch him plummet to the ground below. 

Looking at the sky almost made you miss flying. Almost. Flying was exhilarating. Flying was a rare feeling of freedom. Being a raven was a beautiful thing, even if it had been agony to become one. To have everything snap and tear and rip and break and then go in on itself to accommodate the size. Pure, unfiltered, agony. Worse than anything they could have ever done to you. Even the soles of your feet hadn’t been spared; they’d made you walk on shards of glass. 

Your stomach grumbled loudly, and you let out a long suffering sigh, preparing to leave the icy relief the glass provided and finally fill your stomach at least if not your soul. 

“Hungry?”

You whirled, caught off guard that you hadn’t detected anyone. They had come up from the stairwell, and were filling out the doorway. It was The Winter Soldier himself, and he looked exhausted.

His question hadn’t been mocking or just to point out how loud your tummy was, it was a genuine question. “Starving.”

You dropped your eyes, not wanting to face him. He wasn’t damaged, he wasn’t favouring the leg you had stabbed. It appeared as though you had been right about the healing factor, so at least you wouldn’t have to think about that. 

You clasped your hands in front of you, worrying at them. “I’m sorry about the leg.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said nonchalantly as he padded his way across the kitchen to open the fridge.

There was something about his tone. . . You knew that he had spent time in Wakanda recovering from the trauma and brainwashing that had been a result of seventy years enslaved to HYDRA. He didn’t sound like you, he didn’t sound dead. But there was something in his voice that you recognized. An underlying pain. You wondered if any of the other members of the team heard it, recognized it. 

You refused to let yourself think of this subject any further, you would never get to his stage of recovery. He had the support of people who cared about him, and you would be leaving when all of this was over.

“You know,” he said suddenly, snapping you out of your thoughts, “when I was reunited with Steve we fought like hell.”

Was he trying to make you feel better? “You didn’t know who he was.”

He took a plate out of a cabinet and opened the fridge. “We used to fight when we were kids. He’d get mad at me for letting him win. Even after ten rounds of me kicking his ass.”

You looked at him. He was still rummaging through the fridge in clothes designed to relax; grey jogging bottoms and a loose white t-shirt. His long hair was ruffled and his eyes had slight bags under them. His posture was slouched, and he looked like he really needed to yawn. But he obviously couldn’t sleep. 

“Is Miss Maximoff alright?”

He glanced over at you. “Wanda? She’s alright. Although I think she would have preferred a bit of sympathy from Vision.”

“What did he say?”

Mr Barnes brought several items out of the fridge and went over to the bread-bin to pull two slices of wholemeal bread out. Your stomach grumbled again, prompting you to put your hand over it and drop your gaze.

He did his best robot voice, “Given the nature of your encounter, it’s only logical that she would fight back at an attempted capture.” The fridge was opened again and a brief fizzing sound filled the room.

You pressed your back against the window, unable to enjoy the coolness of it very effectively through your layers while trying not to bother him. When he left, you would make something to eat.

He spoke again, but this time his mouth was full. “Well, enjoy.” You heard a crunch, he was eating an apple.

And just like that he walked out. Your eyes followed him, you raised a brow before looking back at the counter. There, on a plate, was a sandwich. A chicken and bacon sandwich with a tall glass of coke. Making your way over to the counter, you couldn't help but wonder what would compel him to do something for you. It was such a small, simple thing, but to someone like you it may as well have been the Davinci code. You wondered if you would ever work up the willpower to ask him. Probably not. Taking a bite of the sandwich, you groaned in pleasure. It was delicious.   

  
  


Authors Note:

I absolutely hate describing rooms. It’s tedious, especially if it’s just a normal room. It took me forever to get a description that I was happy with. 

Did I get Bucky right?

I'm back at school now, ironically I should have more time to write in the future. I would have had this up earlier but I was exhausted so I went to bed really early. It's quite late right now, and I really just wanted to get this one up but I'm a bit worried it's not up to standard. Oh well, I'll see if I can get the next chapter up a bit sooner.


	11. Time To Get Shit Done

You woke up at your usual time of around half past one. You stared at the ceiling, a blank woman staring at nothing but a stretch of white. Barely blinking, you had nothing to do but think about what you would do. You wouldn’t go back to sleep. In the absence of feeling, you managed to dredge up enough willpower to demand to stay awake, to not give in to the desire to shut the world out. You wouldn’t be a prisoner of your own body today, you refused to let that be the case.

In two weeks they hadn’t come to get you, not even tried to rouse you when they left food and water by the door. If there had been another murder, then they would have come to wake you immediately. Of this you were positive. You didn’t know for sure how they would like you to help them, but looking at a body seemed like a good place to start. Looking for a commonality. You had always favoured melee weapons more than guns when you took a job in your human form, and had used a wide range of weapons to eliminate a target. Sledgehammers, axes, swords, the list went on. Never whips though. Just the idea of going near one of those was enough to send shivers down your spine. 

You made a decision then, before that willpower ceased to exist. You didn’t enjoy human interaction by any means, but progress had to be made. The sooner this was over and done with, the sooner you could leave and disappear completely. You could be nobody again. And besides, you would have to find a washing machine to get the bloody stain out of your jeans and underwear. Then again, you could probably just throw them out, but that was just being lazy.

You slid out of bed slowly, stripping off everything from your hoodie to your socks. Fresh underwear, fresh jeans, a fresh t-shirt, plain socks and the same hoodie from last night thrown over them to hide your arms. You ran your hands through your hair, clean for a change. When had things got so complicated? Well, you supposed they had gotten out of hand the day you’d been born. Yeah, that sounded about right.

You cracked your knuckles, turning towards the door and pushing the handle down. There was a click, and you pushed on the door. You were not certain who lived in the other rooms in the hallway, you never heard anyone. Was it just you in this hallway? To be fair, you were asleep most of the time, and it would be very likely that you had just not heard people moving around. For an assassin, you were a very heavy sleeper. Ryan had been the one who woke up at the slightest creak, and it had saved your lives more than once. You had done what you could do try and be able to rouse yourself from sleep faster, but it had been no use. You slept like a bear in hibernation. 

You decided you would go back to the kitchen on the floor below and see if anyone was there this time, did these people actually have a schedule for when they ate? Or slept? Or did anything really. Captain America probably did. Iron Man probably not. When they weren't saving the world from aliens or some stupid shit like that, were they training or enjoying life? Both? That sounded exhausting. 

You reached the elevator and clicked the button that would take you to the floor below, a look of nothing still on your face as the coffin. . . elevator doors shut you in. Again, your nerves increased slightly at the small space, and it wasn’t helped by the idea of meeting someone. And when the elevator sldi to a stop and the doors opened, there was only one person there. 

Bruce Banner seemed to be lost in a world of his own, and you got almost see the data and algorithms whizzing behind his eyes, just a flash of what that brilliant brain could do. He didn’t even notice the ding the elevator had made when it had delivered you to your desired floor. He was just staring into a cup of coffee, and judging by his shaky movements, this was not his first one. Well, it seemed to be just him in this room. 

You softly stepped out of the elevator, approaching him like you would a wounded animal. He still didn’t notice you, so absorbed in whatever he was thinking about. Slowly you reached a hand out.

Your fingers gently brushed his left shoulder. “Doctor Banner?”

If you hadn’t known any better you would have said he had jumped out of his skin, violently. You took a step back as he abruptly stood and pushed his chair back to get room to whirl and distance himself from you. You didn’t take it personally, he seemed like the type of man who would do that to anyone who had broken his reverie. Dr Banner seemed like the embodiment of shyness and scruffiness. His dress shirt was untucked, a few buttons were undone, sleeves rolled up and it hadn’t seen an iron. . . ever. His trousers weren’t much better. His hair was scruffy and untamed and the bags under his eyes were bad enough to be twins with Mr Starks.

You held your hands up placatingly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

But he was frightened, for the moment at least. Some of it was just at being startled, some of it was just because he knew what you had done. You spared him a quick glance up and down, the messy dress shirt, trousers and hair creating this image of a shy, unkempt scientist who ran on caffeine. He tugged a hand through his curly hair, trying to get a modicum of dignity back. 

“You really shouldn’t scare me like that. The other guy isn’t so friendly.”

“I’m sure I’ve met worse.”

"I doubt it."

His doubts in your claim were misplaced, but you didn't bother correcting him. As far as monsters go, the Hulk didn't seem so bad. Hell, he seemed downright friendly compared to some of the people in your past. 

He swallowed to clear his throat, glancing at the dead eyes and the complete covering of most of your skin. He wondered if there was some way you had managed to hide any weapons under there. He wouldn’t be ashamed of the fact that you scared him. Badly. Even Natasha was wary, lest you end up shoving a knife in someone's eye.

You lowered your hands, one dangling at your side, the other held out far enough for him to be able to grasp it in a handshake. You saw the uncertainty in his eyes, but you knew the truth about why you offered your hand. You were just being polite. Fighting would be futile. And for all your skills, you weren’t really sure you would be able to last long in a fight against the Incredible Hulk. You might have considered it fun at one point in your life though, even if a brutal and painful defeat was a complete inevitability. After a moment, he accepted your hand with a timidity you rarely saw in grown men. That didn’t really mean much though. You didn’t interact with many people.

“Why has no one come to get me?”

He didn’t meet your eyes, “There’s been no more deaths. We've increased security on the agents while the investigation goes on.”

That wasn’t helpful. It was actually mildly irritating that they'd been too afraid to do their damn jobs 

Your voice was dead as you spoke again, “Doctor Banner, if you and your team really need my help to catch a killer, I need to see a body. Sooner rather than later.”

He released your hand. “That’s something you’d have to ask Steve or Tony about.”

Noting the way he played with his fingers to keep his hands busy, you pointed to the chip in your neck. “I don’t know where they are. I can’t leave the top 3 floors.”

“It’s fine, I’ll go get them.”

He had calmed down considerably now, but you noted how there was a slight rush to his steps, as if he couldn’t get away from you fast enough. You didn’t take it personally. How many times had you wished you could get away from you too? 

 

Authors Note:

I know I’ve been told to stop apologizing but. . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Complications with school, but everything is almost fixed now. 

So it looks like I was wrong about having more time.

I’m sorry xx

  
  
  
  



	12. Bodies. . . Kind Of

There were no bodies laid out on a metal table for you. At this point they had all been laid to rest by their families, either buried in a cemetery or scattered to the winds as some final wish. Hopefully the latter had been done after cremation. So, no actual corpses, but the next best thing. Or, what Mr Stark had so modestly claimed was even better since it could all be reset at the end in case something had been missed. 

Technology had never been your strong suit, you had no idea how any of the technology in Tony Stark’s lab worked, least of all the one you were actually using. Something about nanobots. You would rather have just done an autopsy rather than fumble around mindlessly with nothing but a vague description on how this shit worked. The only thing that you knew for certain about any of his technology is that the chip in your neck had been reprogrammed so that you could stand in Tony Stark’s lab with a grid of pictures made up of the victims. Touching any one of the pictures would bring you to a life size exact replica of the victims corpse when it had been cleaned. You could zoom in on wounds, pry them apart, cut the corpse open and look at internal wounds. And you could reset your progress, which was useful.  

With technology like this, there was a chance that you could find something that had been missed, and it gave you a chance to analyse the style of kill in bulk.

Of course, it would have been a lot easier to concentrate if there weren’t four pairs of eyes watching you. Well, three of them were watching you, one pair was concentrating on a game of Angry Birds on his Iphone screen. Clint Barton hadn’t met you properly, the closest thing you had had to a conversation was an exchanging of nods about fifteen minutes ago. There had been no animosity towards you, no fear, not even any suspicion. That was strange, but not something you could be bothered investigating. Tony Stark was practically looking over your shoulder while you utilized his technology, which was fair given the complete lack of trust he had for you. Being near his technology was like being near his baby. Miss Romanov chewed on a piece of bubblegum as she watched you indifferently while she leaned on a counter. The Captain was watching too with nothing but a serious expression and tree trunk arms crossed over his broad chest. No shield anywhere to be found. 

Regardless of how they maintained themselves, you knew that they each had a switch nearby that would fry your ass faster than you could say “ouch”. 

A tiny little sliver of your personality chimed in at the back of your head, “I know something they don’t!” It laughed.

You beat it back into the dark recesses of your being with a large stick. 

No matter how high this voltage went, it was very likely that you could just grit your teeth and fight through it. In that scenario, you would escape or die trying. Either was a good option to consider. But then, the idea of having the clothes taken off your corpse and your scars being exposed. . . You shuddered.

“Was that a shiver?” Mr Stark asked from where he breathed over your shoulder. “Not like you can be cold with all those layers on.”

“I’m fine,” you replied tonelessly.

For you, the worst part about someone you didn’t know seeing your scars was the fact that they wouldn’t know what had happened. To them, it would be just a disgusting run of torturous bad luck. But there was more to it than that, and that wasn’t coming from someone caught in a rut of self-pity. You wondered if you would ever be brave enough to show anyone, let alone tell anyone. _Fucking coward_.

Your focus lay on the grid of pictures before you. Hopefully there would be no additions. With all the murders, you wondered why it had taken so long to set up security. How many more S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were there? Mr Stark definitely had the money to pay for it. Chances were they had thought that they would have caught the murderer by now. They must have been dismayed to find out that they had caught a killer, but not the one that they were looking for. Well, take your victories where you can. 

The grid of pictures was filled of healthy, living people. You clicked on a picture of a woman of about thirty with blonde hair. Then she was lying on the table with a face unrecognizable from the pretty one in the photograph. Completely naked, there was nothing to hide the swollen bruises that had formed black lumps all over her body, her face a broken mishmash of features. Mr Stark backed off and went to stand beside Mr Barton rather than face the grisly sight of this dead young woman. You recognized this kind of kill, a kill of brutality done with a knuckle duster. Feeling a bit strange, you “picked up” her right wrist. A red line where rope had been dug in painfully, and there were matching lines on her other wrist and around where her foot was joined to her leg. You didn’t consider the science behind being able to touch the holograph, only that it didn’t feel like touching skin. You sat her up, her back had been almost completely untouched, the same with the back of her legs and her bum. She had been tied down, stretched out like a starfish, and then beaten to death with the knuckle dusters, a that was a slow and brutal way to die. 

You made her body disappear and brought up the next one, a man who must have been in his sixties. Death by a thousand cuts. This one looked like he was a typical grandfather, seeing his rotund stomach marked with cuts was disdainful. This was a Chinese method of torture, and the placement of the cuts had been professionally done. The cuts didn’t kill him immediately, but the blood loss did. Along with the stinging pain of the cuts themselves, tendons had been cut in the process to make sure that he had been in pain. You had hoped that they hadn't tugged on the tendons while he was dying. There were ugly bruises were capillaries had burst.

You weren’t concentrating on the Avengers behind you anymore, didn’t know or care about their reactions to this. But if you had you would have seen that it had affected everyone except Mr Barton, who was still on his phone. Miss Romanov had spat out her gum.

The next picture was another man, younger this time. He may have been attractive, but his body was bloated with overexposure to water. How long had his corpse had time to gather up water? There weren’t many details here, but you knew how it had happened. His head had been held underwater, and on the cusp of drowning he had been brought up. Again and again and again for an indefinite amount of time, then left in a bath filled to the brim when he had died. 

The next one was brought up, a mature woman. But when you saw her, you shut the entire thing down and took a step back from where you had been standing. Although you wouldn’t admit it, there was fear in your eyes that you could do nothing to hide as the numbness caved to make room for the new feeling. 

The Captain straightened, “Problem?”

Whipped, she had been whipped. In that blinding second she had been covered with terrible lashings. No. No no no no. You had never used a whip, you couldn’t stand the sight of the fucking things. Your back ached with the memories of split skin, gashes so deep that you could see the white bone as hot blood poured like a river. Screaming, there was always screaming and it wasn’t just yours. Unbearable agony. You couldn’t hear Tony Stark when he said that apparently you were human after all, but you might have punched him for it. It was a good thing you hadn’t heard him, your strength would have broken something. Mr Barton was looking up now, even Miss Romanov had taken a step forward. You wanted to leave, you wanted to go to bed for a sleep with no dreams. You wanted the numbness back. You wanted to stop staring at an empty counter where a mutilated woman had once been.

The memory of being shut in a coffin came back strong, sometimes they had put you in there with the fresh lashings, and your back had stuck to the stone surface and they would have had to rip you off the bottom when they had opened it up. The room was too small. You were shut in. It was getting smaller and smaller and there was no air and good god you would start hyperventilating soon-

“I need some air,” you said with a pleading in your voice that had the Captain march over to you and whirl you around. 

Steve Rogers was caught off guard by the look in your eyes, already he’d become so accustomed to the nothing that plagued them. But what he saw in your (e/c) eyes reminded him of a lamb going to the slaughter. And he was struck by how young you were. In that moment, it didn’t matter what you had done in the past, all that mattered is that you were young and afraid, not some hardened war vet that had seen it all and come to terms with everything. So Steve Rogers took a gentle hold of your arm and took you to the balcony on the top floor, with Clint Barton being the only one to follow him.

 

Authors Note:

I became obsessed with a band and a video game while I was away, so I'll probably reference them later.  


	13. Fresh Air

The wind on your face felt good, reminded you of happier times spent soaring through star filled skies on dark wings. You didn’t think you would ever fly with the same freedom and joy you had before. Sometimes flying was a necessity to get to and from your destination, but it was work. In part, your happiness had been because of Ryan and his encouragement. He had called your power a gift, but nowadays you just thought of it as a curse. And the agony of shifting into something new for the first time. . .

The Captain had dragged you to the penthouse balcony, right past the bar stocked with expensive drinks. Expensive, hard liquor that could leave a lesser man unconscious in a puddle of his own vomit. You had looked longingly at the full bottle of Whiskey on the middle shelf, and completely missed Mr Barton catch your look. You were already outside in the fresh air when he went behind the bar and swiped the whiskey from the glass shelf, hiding it behind him like a child with a treat he doesn’t want to share. Or in this case, he did want to share. He just didn’t want an adult to catch him sharing something he shouldn’t have, with someone who probably wasn’t trusted enough to get hammered.

Within no time at all, your back was ramrod straight as you looked out over the city, your calm and composure returned to you except for the telltale sign of your knuckles going sheet white with the force you were gripping the railing. Small grooves had formed where you had exerted your freakish strength. Not super-strength by any means, but the marks could stand as a testament to your above average strength. Later, Tony Stark would discover the grooves and wonder which member of the team with super-strength had gotten careless and gripped his railing too tight. Then he would snicker at the innuendo.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, but the Captain had shared whispered words with Clint Barton and had left you alone with just him and the view as company. You had heard about him on the News, his proficiency with a bow. And his proficiency without one. In terms of a sparring partner, he would be a hell of a good one to test your mettle. The fight leading up to your capture hadn’t been a real fight, it wasn’t a way to accurately measure how good you were against superheroes. You’d been choked and had stabbed someone in response, hardly a fight. Being made a sandwich in response had been. . . strange. You weren’t sure what it meant, or how he would be the next time you encountered him. If there was a next time. From hatred to a somewhat unusual attempt at friendliness. Strange.

Moving your mind away from Mr Barnes, you thought back, and remembered how at one point you would have considered it great fun to fight Mr Barton. You and Ryan had sparred, and it had been so much fun. Playful fun. The kind of brutal, bloody fighting you had engaged in on the run had been a different kind of fun. It had been an adrenaline pumping kind of fun, even if the actual killing hadn’t been as enjoyable. It had been the kind of savage fun that came with letting completely go of yourself. Well, the joy of fighting had been tainted for you. Now, like flying, it was just work. God, you did that a lot didn’t you? Compare your life now and then and complain about it. Pathetic. You were pathetic. 

Those whip marks on that woman. . . Torture wasn’t fun. It never had been. There was one reason why you had specialized in torturing people to death; they deserved it. Whips were beyond you though. Never a whip. You’d rather try to kill a man in the middle of a desert in the form of a killer whale than use a whip. Funny, since whips probably hurt way less than eating a man alive. The memories of those encounters made your stomach lurch. They probably also wouldn’t result in you vomiting guts up. But you would take a night covered in blood throwing up entrails over a dirty toilet than hold the handle of an iron-tipped whip. You may be a shitty human being, but even you had standards. 

“And here I thought Barnes was bad.” 

Clint Barton braced his forearms on the railing and blew out a breath of air. Both hands dangled over the railing, the bottle of whiskey one slip away from plummeting to the ground and shattering over someone's head. You didn’t think it possible, but your fingers gripped the railing even tighter. He twisted the cap and took a swig, then offered you some.

You peeled your hands from the railing, your palms sporting faint crescent moon shapes where your almost non-existent fingernails had dug in. You wrapped your hands around the neck of the bottle and threw it back, savouring the warmth as it ran down your throat and filled your gut. God, it had been so long since your last drink and it tasted so good. You weren’t sure what that said about your relationship with alcohol but it couldn’t be anything good. Eh, fuck it.

You passed the half empty bottle back, feeling all the more refreshed now that you had something strong in your veins. “Mr-” 

“It’s Clint. Not even the interns address me as Mr.”

_ Alright then _ . “Clint, what do you mean Barnes is bad?”

“He always stares off into space with sad eyes thinking about all the shit he’s done and how bad a person he is etcetera,” he waved the bottle around to accent his point.   


“Is he a bad person?” Did you care?   

“Not really. He can be a bit of a dick sometimes but he’s an overall good guy.”

You grunted, not wanting to be rude but not really finding it in you to care after all.

“Oh but you, you’ve got it bad.”

_ Yeah, there’s a reason for that.  _ You turned away again. What did he know about your life? Sure, he had probably had a hard upbringing and a hard life, but you doubted he had anything on you. You squeezed your eyes shut, hands hanging limply at your side.

“Okay, maybe it’s too early for this talk. You don’t know me very well. But if you ever really do need someone to talk to, or if you ever want to do something stupid, come find me.”

He handed you the Whiskey again and gave you a wink before turning on his heel. He had just about reached the doorway when you realised that there was one burning question inside of you that you needed to ask. Okay, about this you may care.

“You know what I did, why do you want to spend time with me?”

He looked back over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, “You really think no one else here has done bad shit? I don’t know enough about your reasons for what you did to hate you.” And as he walked away he said one more thing, "I'll talk to Tony about giving you the run of the entire tower."

Then you were left alone, truly alone this time. You drained the rest of the whiskey and fastened the top back on. Well, you supposed that an ally wouldn’t hurt. You couldn’t consider anyone else the same way, but it was unlikely you would want to do anything stupid. Well, apart from right now. You looked back over your shoulder at the fully stocked bar, and wondered just how much Tony Stark would hate you when he found how depleted his bar was at the end of the night.

 

Authors Note:

I suck. Yeah, it's been a while. I didn't know what I really wanted to do with this chapter so I put it off and its been like a month and a half. I'll try to make it up to you all xx


	14. Eavesdropper

Anywhere in the tower huh? Well,that could wait. You weren’t drunk enough to go aimlessly wandering where people might see you. Especially if they were just people that did normal work in the tower. Your tolerance for alcohol had once bordered on complete dependency, but you had managed to bring yourself back from that edge. Instead, drinking was the only hobby you had, and you considered it a sport. There wasn’t a man that you knew of so far that could out drink you. You looked again at the bar and took the last bottle off of the shelf, clumsily unscrewing the cap. Well, Tony Stark was going to have to buy enough drinks to refill his middle shelf, but his top and bottom shelf were untouched.

You stumbled to the elevator, and you really did intend to go to back to your room. Honest. But your depth perception was shot. It was impressive really, most people would have died from the alcohol poisoning whereas you were just a bit clumsy. Aiming for the button that would take you to your floor, you missed it by a mile and ending up nearly smashing a completely random button. You made no attempts to correct your mistake, just shrugged. Okay, maybe you were more than a bit clumsy.

“I guess I’m going on an adventure.” You released a loud belch.

***

Well, an empty gym wasn’t so bad. There was probably worse places in the tower you could be when you were completely hammered. This was a good gym, way better than any of the makeshift stuff you had had to deal with in your flat. There was a boxing ring, punching bags, various types of machines for cardio and muscle building, weights, and in a connected room there was a swimming pool. An impressive one at that, with a deep end that was actually deep. It even had little sectioned rooms off to the side of the pool where you could shower and dry your hair if you didn’t feel like dripping onto the floor on your way up to your room. The outer side of the gym was also window, although the swimming pool wall had been spared this. You hiccuped, wanting to take a swim but thinking better of it when you realized that the water wasn’t the only thing moving in your vision.

You took another drink, almost tripping over on your way to the punching bag currently hanging from the ceiling. It looked brand new, and you traced your fingers down the material. You made to lightly punch it but ended up repeating the incident with the lift button. Except this time there was nothing else to hit and you ended up lying in your belly on the hardwood floor. You had managed to save the bottle though. Oh well. You couldn’t use the bag anyway in your current attire. There was no chance in hell you’d change into gym attire, not when anyone could just walk in and see what a mess of scars your body was.

You looked up at the window. God, what was it with all these fucking windows? You stuck your tongue out at the world, sick of having to look at it. You drained the bottle this time, well and truly fucked up. You started to get back up to go back to the lift but. . .  _ Ding _ . Someone was coming. Now, you were a rational person regardless of the self-loathing so you figured that it was highly unlikely that they were coming to this floor. And anyway, why did it matter? You may be drunk, but that same empty feeling was there. But only partially. Drinking brought up feelings, and you were very unsure how predictable those feelings were. So while there was still feelings of emptiness and nothingness, they were dangerously mixed with all sorts of things you didn’t want anyone to see. 

You picked yourself up off the floor - remembering to grab the bottle - and ran to the best of your  ability to the doorway that connected the swimming pool and the gym. You ducked around it and pressed your back to the wall, waiting for the sound of the open doors. It came. Heavy footsteps slowly trudged through the room. You peered over the doorway, squinting as the light from the overhead lamps bounced the off of metal. Bucky Barnes currently had his back to you as he brought his fists up to the punching bag.

Oh shit. You brought yourself back around the corner. Shit. Shit. Shit. What were you going to do? Okay, you could turn into a raven, but right now trying to fly drunk would be like trying to drive drunk. And what about your clothes and the bottle? You heard furious punches. He sounded. . . really angry. Fuck. Okay, maybe being afraid of being seen before had been unreasonable since the only information you’d had was that he was actually in the room. However, you had no idea what had caused his bad mood. And you didn’t know much about this man. No one was here to tell you he wouldn’t see you and jump on you. You had only seen him twice before, once when he was like a storm, and the other time when he was performing a random act of kindness. You had no idea which one was closer to the man he was.

You peered back over, getting a good look at how the powerful muscles in his back shifted through the tank top he was wearing. He favoured his right arm, the flesh one that was rippling with hard muscle. Well, you supposed that you could just wait for him to leave. There was no way you would be able to sneak past him and force the lift to silence itself. And using the stairs would probably be a deathtrap. You slid down the wall slowly, getting into a comfortable sitting position as you continued to watch him.

_ Stalker _ . Oh shut up. . . brain. You were going to suffer tomorrow. Well, that was a reasonable excuse to stay in bed.

James Buchanan Barnes was keeping up the pace with his punches, and sweat was beginning to make his clothes stick to his body. He was angry, sweaty, and fit as fuck. But you got the feeling you were intruding on something personal. It wasn’t because of how close his clothes stuck to his body, it was because of the raw, carnal feelings that were going into his hits. It was like walking in on someone in therapy. He stopped, ran his hands through the hair he had kept loose. He pressed his forehead against the punching bag and released a shuddering sigh, and you retreated round your corner in respect for a man having a moment.

He had scars too. Of course he did, it wasn’t a surprising fact. The most scar tissue was bunched around the place where his metal arm met flesh, and you could only imagine how sensitive the tissue around the arm must be. Good sensitive or bad sensitive though? 

The alcohol was turning on you, you wanted to curl up into a ball and sob. About everything and everyone. Instead you grit your teeth and curled your hands into fists, commanding yourself to stay strong. You wouldn’t cry, not while someone was close enough to hear it. 

***

_ How long does one super soldier need to exercise _ ? You get that he was probably superior to the average man, but it had been about 2 hours of furious punching and you were beginning to get hungry. You could keep your mouth shut but your stomach would easily betray you for a sandwich. You peered back over, he was dropping his fist and stretching his arms behind his back. 

You had to wonder, was this the same kind of anger that had been dominating him when he had landed in front of you? If the fight had gotten bloody, would he have used you as an excuse to release all that pent up rage? You couldn’t fault him for it. 

He finally left, the elevator carrying him away to god-knows-where. You beat your head against that wall, wanting nothing more than to stuff your face and go to bed.     

 

Authors Note:

You know, I actually like this chapter. Hope you enjoyed it xx

 


	15. Hangover From Hell

“Kid.  _ Kid _ ,” said a worried voice that jostled you gently out of sleep.

Clint shook you gently, the movement making you feel as if you were in a boat on a storm. You peeled an eyelid open and registered the soft fuzz against your cheek. Carpet. It was carpet. You groaned, suddenly remembering what had happened. You had made it to the lift, had almost given yourself a migraine trying to hit the right button. You’d gone to the empty kitchen, stuffed your face with anything that looked edible and made your way back to the lift to get to your floor to fulfill the second part of your fantasy. Then, just as you had made it out and onto your floor, you dropped like a dead weight and drifted off into a deep sleep fueled by alcohol. The bottle was still clutched in your hand, and you felt a wave of disgust with yourself wash over you.  _ Drunk,  _ you mentally spat at yourself.

You made an attempt to sit up and immediately regret it. The world spun like a top and your arms gave way under you, allowing you to face plant back into the carpet. Well, you supposed that this wasn’t so bad. What was bad was hearing Clint laugh at you while you lay half alive on the ground. Still, it was better than having to spend the day hungover in a cold and abandoned warehouse in the middle of winter. Getting shit-faced had seemed like a good way to warm up at the time, but you and Ryan had severely underestimated the fallout the next day. 

“When I left you there, I didn’t mean for you to drink yourself to death.”

You turned, and found Clint kneeling next to you with a mixture of amusement and slight worry on his face. You groaned again in response, already hating yourself more than usual. You wondered if it would be okay to just lie here for. . . 

“What day is it?”

He considered for a moment, “Thursday, September 11th.”

_ Great _ . “Why do I never see more than one Avenger in the tower unless they’ve arranged it?”

He grinned, “Ever considered the fact that you’re scary and people are avoiding you?”

You probably could have thought of a retort, but a sharp needle ran through your brain. It was more the shock of it than the pain, but even you had problems dealing with pain when you were sick. Taking your brain out of your head would have been preferable to this. You had overdone it. You hadn’t had a drink recently and you had gotten carried away by the availability of it all.  _ Stupid bitch. _

Strong hands grabbed you under the arms, and before you knew it you were on your feet with Clint supporting you. He looped your arm around his shoulders and steadied you when you threatened to collapse again. Your cheek was red with the imprint of the carpet. Your feet stumbled over themselves a few times, but the journey to your door was a surprising success. Somewhere along the way the bottle had freed itself of your weak grasp and lay abandoned.

“Why are you up here anyway?” you asked as you lurched forward accidentally.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. told us you had been sleeping on the hallway floor for hours and that there was high levels of alcohol in your system. Tony was impressed you had cleared so much of his bar without dying.”

Well, two things that you hadn’t expected to hear:

  1. Tony Stark was impressed.
  2. F.R.I.D.A.Y. had been watching the entire time and and had given zero indication that she was there.



You didn’t really care, there was only the pounding in your head and the roiling in your stomach as Clint reached for the door handle with your added weight piled onto his side. The door swung open, and you barely registered him take note of the bloody jeans in the corner and the splotches of dark blood on the bed sheets. 

He decided he would send someone up to take care of it. Periods didn’t disgust him, but if you had been lying in your own blood with very little resolve to do anything about it then. . .  _ something is seriously wrong with this girl _ . He caught himself, he didn’t mean it like that. You were just a kid.

“Clint, I’m going to be sick.”

He rushed you to the toilet and let you fall to your knees, deciding to give you some privacy while he attended to those dirty sheets.

*** 

_ Why is life nothing but constant pain and agony _ ? Your head was pounding, your stomach was doing cartwheels, your throat was like sandpaper, and you were in the midst of torturing the toilet. Of all your victims, the toilet was the one that you felt sorry for. Well, at least this vomit wasn’t full of chunks of flesh and hair. The thought sent you hurling your guts up yet again. Oh god, you really should have eaten before getting hammered. It wasn’t like you had had the opportunity to do so though. 

Watching Mr Barnes was still fresh in your mind. Seeing all that rage, those scars that penetrated more than his skin, the feeling of intruding on something personal. There was something very wrong with that man, and you didn’t mean that in an insulting way. He reminded you of yourself, and he seemed like he didn’t do well in public. Did he attach himself to Captain America and frequent dark corners in public? You vomited again. He probably wouldn’t be flattered if he knew that every thought of him was followed by a stream of acidic vomit.

When you were finally empty you slammed the toilet seat shut and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. You winced at the loud noise, hating yourself even more for being so careless with the hammer and anvil going off in your head. Whatever blacksmith lived in your head needed to pay rent or move out because this was fucking unacceptable.

Your mind wandered to Clint. He wasn't your friend, but it was like you had said before: having an ally was beneficial. It meant you wouldn't be alone, and for that you were grateful to him.  

***

Clint came back holding a huge glass of water, gagging at the smell. You took the glass and sipped it slowly, the feeling of cold water on your throat almost orgasmic. Almost. You gave him a thumbs-up to show your thanks but made no attempt to get up off of the floor. You would sleep on the floor _again_ if you had to. 

“Kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

You took another drink. “Fire away.”

“What do you plan to do when this is over?”

You stared off into space. Of course. The world had seen an almost perfect picture of your face. A drawing produced from the mind of a dying man had marked your face forever. Anonymity was gone. 

“First tell me something. When another agent had been murdered, and I was here, what did you tell the public?”

He crossed his arms, “Pepper is the one who deals with the press usually. But we all agreed that we had to say we had the girl from the drawing, but that you weren’t responsible for the deaths of the agents. We said we couldn’t be sure that any of the murders in the past were tied to you either. We don’t have an explanation for what Wanda saw.”  

“That’s a lot of uncertainty for the public to deal with.” Silence. “ I won’t lie. Every single brutal murder in the past was me. But I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

“I know.”

“And to answer your question, I have no idea what I'm going to do.” None whatsoever.

"Tomorrow we're having a meeting. You're going to have to be there."

"Well it's about time."

 

Authors Note:

Nothing too exciting, but I'd thought it would be nice to release one to make up for a month and a half of silence xx


	16. Fire

Fire. Everything was on fire. Again.

You could feel the blistering heat on your skin and the sweat roll down your body in fat drops. The smell of burning flesh was overwhelming, and it was a physical and mental effort not to retch your guts up, you had done enough of that today already. You couldn’t see anything past the impenetrable curtain of flames pressing down on you like a shroud. The screams made your ears bleed. The screams of children and adults alike, and you crushed your ears under your hands just to try and block them out. But they were inside your head, and nothing could stop them ricocheting around your mind like so many bullets. The fire wouldn’t touch you, but it consumed everything else in its path while you were completely and utterly powerless to do anything about it. Helpless. Weak. This time you couldn’t even run. _Not this, please not this. Let me forget please-_

A strangled cry escaped your throat as you shot up in bed. The covers were tangled around your legs and a dark stain of sweat was spread across the sheet. For fucks sake. The bed had just been changed not that long ago. You huffed out a laugh at that. You were being revisited by traumatic times in your life and your first concern was the fucking sheets? To be fair to yourself, Clint had been responsible for the fresh sheets so you supposed there was some sentimental value. It almost seemed like he cared. . . and you just weren’t sure what to do with that information. Pathetic.

You took a deep breath and raised a hand to your cheek. It was damp with tears, not sweat. It had been a while since that happened. But it had also been a while since you’d had that nightmare. You looked at the clock, the digital numbers reading _04:17_. You groaned, knowing that you were never going to be able to get back sleep now, not with the sheets as wet as they were and an old wound reopened. Plus, you smelled of BO. You should probably take a shower.

You disentangled yourself from the quilt and made a beeline for the bathroom, making your way over to the sink to splash cold water over your face. The hair on the skin between your scars stood upright as the sweat cooled, goosebumps prominent. A drop of cold water dripped from the end of your nose as you gripped the sides of the sink in an effort to ground yourself. A few damp strands of hair clung to your forehead. It was ambiguous if that was due to the sweat or the water.

You blocked out the screams and concentrated on taking deep breaths. Your eyes were red and your throat raw, had you been sobbing in your sleep? Oh god. You didn’t know who else slept on this floor. Did anyone? Tony Stark certainly didn’t. You had heard Captain America had an apartment somewhere. That was about it. You weren’t really sure about the living arrangements of the rest of them. Well, you can’t have been sobbing that loud or someone would have at least followed the noise. Or did nightmares just happen so regularly here that no one bothered to check up on anyone anymore? Thinking about the Avengers track record that scenario seemed pretty likely.

The fire was a dream that had haunted you for a while when you had been taken. Then again after you had escaped them the second time by yourself. It had eventually become a less and less frequent intruder in your dreams the longer you’d been on the run. You’d wake up afraid and crying, but this time Ryan wouldn’t be able hold you until you calmed down. You would be all alone again to deal with the terror.

When Ryan had been there, he’d wrap his arms around you and hold you to his chest. You’d be sweaty, but you wouldn’t take your clothes off. Ryan hated looking at and feeling your scars, unless you were having sex. And he hated talking about the torture. There was a time when you would have been angry at that, but eventually you began to see it from his perspective. To other people, your scars were ugly. And talking about the torture was pointless.

After Ryan had died, the nightmares about the fire had come back in full force. This time they had two horrific in your events to feed off of, two tragedies. Well. . . that summed up your life pretty well. A flaming tragedy.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you straightened up, sleep now completely out of the question. There was supposed to be a meeting today anyway, might as well prepare for how great _that_ was going to be. And by prepare, you meant eat.

That fire had got you thinking of _them_. The people that had torn you apart and ruined your life. They had no name. Personally, you stuck with the theme. 

They were the Nameless.

That name brought back memories that brought you to your knees.

 

Authors Note:

A short one. I just wanted to torture you with more backstory without actually revealing anything huge.


	17. Meeting

There were no dreams this time, just darkness. But in that darkness there was a voice. You followed it. It was saying something specific, and the humour in it made you slightly suspicious. 

“You know, you remind me of a panda.”

Your eyes fluttered open, and you registered the pain in your back that came as a result of sleeping stooped over the kitchen table. Your cheek was practically stuck to the crumby surface and your arms hung limply at your sides. Your vision focused on Clint standing above you with crossed arms and a comically neutral expression on his face. He didn’t seem very surprised. 

So much for not being able to get back to sleep. You must have drifted after eating the sandwich you’d made. Well, it wasn’t the most dignified way to fall asleep but at this point in your life you were far beyond dignity. At least your hoodie hadn’t slipped off of your shoulders. 

Your ripped your cheek off of the table and stretched, almost savouring the loud crack that your back made when you straightened it. Your jaw stretched unattractively as you yawned. 

“A panda?”

“Yeah, they can fall asleep almost anywhere.”

You gave him a look and rolled your eyes, pushing the chair back as you made to stand. Your legs were wobbly, and when it seemed as though you were about to fall back into your chair Clint shot his arms out to steady you. One hand was laid flat on the small of your back and the other squeezed your arm. You regained your balance and nodded in thanks, and when he was sure you weren’t going to collapse he let you go. The act of kindness made your heart twist momentarily. You wiped the crumbs from your face and stood straight, taking deep breaths.

The meeting was today, and you weren’t really sure if you were prepared to sit among a room full of people that didn’t trust you and probably didn’t like you. You couldn’t say you blamed them, but you didn’t enjoy the feeling of all of those eyes tracking you across the room. It had been so much harder to feel numb recently, that emptiness had been filled with self-hate. Thinking about what others thought of you only made yourself feel worse, but you couldn't keep your mind off of the opinions of other people.    

Clint reached out, “What’s wrong?”

You looked at him, wondering if you should tell him anything. So far he’d been nothing but good to you, but there was still a kernel of distrust in your mind. But then again, it was unlikely that you would see him or any of the Avengers ever again when this whole ordeal was over. They’d be watching you, but you’d probably never see them. 

“I’m. . . afraid.” You swallowed. “I don’t want to face them.”

Understanding dawned on his face, and something that you couldn’t identify passed across. 

“Kid, a lot of us may not agree with your. . . methods, but that doesn’t mean we hate you. We just don’t know you.”

“I don’t think most of you want to know me.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “This must be how Steve felt when Barnes came home.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Listen, if you want to just get on with things and never see us again that’s fine, but say something. Anything. Say something nice or even be angry at the situation. Shutting yourself away doesn’t help.”

He didn’t understand. How could he?  

“Who will be there?”

He considered the question for a second, drawing up a list in his head. “Cap, Nat, Stark, Wanda, Vision, me, you. . . that’s it.”

“Really? What about Falcon? War machine? Dr Banner? Thor?”

“Sam has a meeting today, Rhodey has military stuff to deal with, you terrify Bruce, Thor is in Asguard for a while. Thor had to leave the night we captured you. He was pretty disappointed."

You were glad he hadn’t been there, your chances against a god weren’t fantastic. Especially the god of thunder and lightning. The idea sent a shudder down your spine. Then there was another thought. Your last encounter with Miss Maximoff had not gone. . . well. You hadn’t seen the woman since you had broken her nose and effectively locked her out of your mind. You doubted there had been many - if any - people who had shut her out. But by now her nose should be better. 

“Alright, when’s the meeting?”

“About five minutes from now.”

***

You and Clint made your way up the the penthouse where everyone was already waiting on nice leather couches positioned around a coffee table in the centre of the room. The Captain sat in a comfy sofa-chair. Tony Stark sat backwards on a seat and Miss Romanov sat with her feet up on one of the sofas. On the sofa across Vision sat with his arm curled around Miss Maximoff’s shoulders. Set apart from the group Mr Barnes sat on a stool at the bar with no drinks before him. But at least he was facing the group. You caught the Captain throwing up glances in his general direction, and you wondered how protective he was of his best friend. 

Tony Stark pointed at you accusingly, “Stay away from my bar.”

Clint made his way to the couch where Miss Romanoff sat. He pushed her feet to the side, forcing her to sit upright. He beckoned you over, and you sat between him and the end of the couch, taking an internal deep breath.

You looked up and found Miss Maximoff staring at you, but when she caught your eye she looked away quickly. You picked up Vision slightly tightening his grip around her shoulders. She seemed to find her hands in her lap very interesting. Was she afraid of you?

“Is there something you want to ask me Miss Maximoff?” You asked her completely deadpan, zero emotion in your voice or eyes.

She met your gaze with questioning eyes, “How can you block me out?”

You felt every eye in the room turn towards you, Miss Romanoff leaned past Clint to make a point of looking at you. You looked over at the bar, and Mr Barnes’s eyes burned a hole in you. You felt shame rising up like bile, even if you hadn’t technically done anything wrong. There was no way he could know that you had been watching him, was there? He looked so different today, all that anger was buried underneath someone who had an aura of such sadness that. . .  _ Forget about him (y/n). He’s barely spoken to you _ . But you couldn’t help feeling like you knew him, if only because it was possible that you could relate to him. His eyes practically dragged you in.

Clint nudged you, and you realized that you had been staring at him. He had just stared right back. Clint had broken the tension. You weren’t sure if you hated him for it or not.

You looked back at Miss Maximoff and gave her your answer, “People never think that someone can get into your head, so naturally they never think there’s a way they can stop it. All it takes is a bit of practice.”

“Who taught you?” she asked as she began to lean forward.

Was she trying to pry out your secrets through talk since she couldn’t break into your head?

“A friend.”

“Who?”

“The chances of you knowing him are practically non-existent.”

“Wanda,” the Captain warned, “that’s enough.”

She leaned back into Vision’s side and dropped her eyes again, seemingly ashamed that she let her curiousity get the better of her.

Ryan had never told you how he knew to protect minds, but the skill had become invaluable when the Nameless had tried to torture your mind instead of just your body. When they had decided that you were old enough they had sent some of their special members to see if they could break you mentally instead of physically. The look on their faces when you had shut them out was worth the lashing you received afterwards. Your back burned with the memory of split flesh.

Miss Romanoff snapped you out of your thoughts , “Why do you make some of them look like animal attacks?”

_ Convenience _ . “It threw people off the trail.”

“But you do them so well. Experts know they’re tiger bites. Wolf bites. How do you-”

“With all due respect Miss Romanoff, is this meeting about me? Or are we here to discuss a course of action regarding the torture of innocent people?”

She smirked and sat back, at what you weren’t sure you wanted to find out. She was hard to read. 

“Fancy words,” Mr Stark whispered under his breath.

“A course of action Miss (L/n).” Vision looked at you. “We need to decide on a course of action. It’s clear that whoever was framing you was doing it to try and draw you into the open. They wanted to find you. So now we need to use that to our advantage.”

The idea had occurred to you of course, that someone was looking for you. That scared you, the idea that someone out there was hurting innocent people so that they could get you out in the open so that they could find you. You hadn’t dwelled that much on it though, since everyone that had known you in the past was dead. It had to be someone you had never met before. You hadn’t entertained the notion that some Nameless had escaped you. You firmly believed that you had wiped them off of the face of the Earth. You had gotten revenge for you, Ryan, and all the people they had made you. . .   

“Ah. I see. You want to use me as bait.”

The Captain made to object, but you cut him off with a raised hand. “No need to worry Captain, I know there’s not very many choices available.”

“I don’t enjoy having to send people into danger.”

“And here I was under the impression you didn’t like me.”

“It’s not a case of if I like or hate you.”

He was so. . . good. How did he do it?

“Well I for one,” started Mr Stark, “am thrilled that we can pay for a solution. All I have to do is arrange a charity ball that  _ you _ will be attending.” He pointed at you to emphasize his point.

You hung your head. Great. You’d have to be seen in public. 

The Captain looked back over at you, blue eyes pinning you, “You won’t be in danger. We’ll all be looking out for you.”

_ Concerned for my well-being? _

“Fine. Just to recap; Mr Stark is arranging a party, I will act as bait at said party, hopefully we’ll get closer to finding out who’s mutilating people in my name.”

“And hopefully we’ll understand why I saw you in that dying man’s head,” Wanda chimed in.

Yeah, that would be nice to know.

You raised a brow at the Captain, “Did I really need to be here for this?”

“We weren’t going to do it unless you wanted to be involved. We couldn’t force you.”

That was. . . nice. It was nice to be presented with a choice. Maybe Clint was right. Maybe their treatment of you was just due to a lack of trust and not because they hated you. Clint had said that Dr Banner was afraid of you, and you suspected that it was because he was afraid of the idea that you might antagonize him into bringing the Hulk out. _That_ was what he was afraid of, not you.

Meeting concluded. You stood up and made your way over to the lift, intent on leaving the sets of eyes that watched you for any sign of a threat. You had noticed. Throughout the meeting they had seemed relaxed, but you knew that one suspicious move from you would have them pinning you to the floor with a hand around your throat. You weren't stupid.

“Let me know when I should go party shopping,” you called over your shoulder.

You made to make your way to the lift and let that be the end of things, but unfortunately for you, fate had other plans. Instead of just making it over to the lift after a sassy remark, your foot got caught on the carpet and you ended up sprawled out on the floor. Again. In front of people.  _ I hate my life _ . You made to pull yourself to your feet, but the sound of heavy footsteps getting closer to your head stopped you. 

You looked up. Bucky Barnes was holding out his human hand to you in an offer of help. His face betrayed nothing. For a moment you didn’t know what to do, stunned at his willingness to help you. You just stared stupidly at him until he made a point of lowering his hand even further. You accepted his help, still looking into those stormy eyes. There was a certain softness to them, buried so deep within that anything more than a fleeting glance would have made you miss it completely. His hand was warm, and you found yourself grasping it a little tighter than was required. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. As you rose unsteadily to your feet he grabbed onto your bicep to make sure you stayed upright. The hard metal of his fake hand squeezing your muscle didn't bother you. You barely even registered it. He refused to break eye contact, and he didn't let you go when you had regained your balance. Stretched out seconds passed.

You swallowed. “Thank you, Mr Barnes.”

He nodded and released you. For a split second you thought that the corner of his lips tugged up imperceptibly. What was it with this man? You had no idea who he was. Was he kind or was he angry? Why had he held on?

By the time the lift doors slid closed on you you realized that no one behind you had said anything from when you had fallen to when Mr Barnes had helped you up.   

 

 

Authors Note:

Guys, I literally have so many scenes planned and it’s KILLING ME not being able to show them to you all.  

Anyway; HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! Well, almost. We’re getting there.

Have a good one xx


	18. The Last Person He Wanted To Meet

Party planning had never been your strong suit anyway, seeing as you’d never actually been to a party. Drunken nights hidden away with Ryan didn’t count, although they had involved a considerable amount of dancing. No, the party planning was left to the people that knew how to do it. It had been just over a week already, and the event was that very evening. For nine days anxiety had coiled in your gut, steadily getting larger and larger until it threatened to reach a tendril up to wrap around your neck and choke you. How many negative emotions had reared their ugly head while you’d been here? Too many. Maybe it made you a coward for wanting to hide in the nothingness rather than face them, but you didn’t care. Better to feel nothing at all than to be in pain.

It was six in the morning on Saturday, and the thoughts of what was to come that evening was enough to force you awake even when you knew that you would need your wits about you. Exhaustion made you sloppy and in turn caused mistakes that you couldn’t afford. But no matter how hard you tried, your thoughts kept circling around what was to come and your encounter with Natasha.

About three days ago, Natasha had approached you in the kitchen and asked you to stop calling her Miss. Demanded really. In a peaceful moment together, she had watched the raindrops with you. The companionship was. . . pleasant. Until she had asked you what you had planned to wear to the event. You hadn’t known what to say, not sure why she would concern herself with something as trivial as clothes. But you had admitted that you had put next to no thought into that aspect, instead focusing more on a potential attack. You had supposed that you would wear your jeans and a hoodie, even if it made you stick out like a sore thumb.

“Don’t you want to take people's breath away without having to stab them for it?” she had asked with an apparently dry sense of humour.

Looking at her, you could tell that she would steal hearts on the party night regardless of what she wore. She could go in her pyjamas if she wanted and attract the attention of countless men. You hadn’t pegged her for a fancy dress type, and you said as much to her.

She smirked. “I can have hobbies, and once in a while I enjoy looking nice. But you haven’t answered my question.

You didn’t know if you should offer up that part of yourself, if you should let her have a glimpse of just a little bit of your fractured soul.

“Let me help you pick a dress. If you and Wanda can clear the air then she’ll help too.”

You had shaken your head and shuddered at the thought of all of that skin being exposed to the world. It had barely been exposed to Ryan. The world would recoil at the site of so much ruined flesh, and it would not let you down gently like he had.

You looked into eyes that had been carved out of chips of ice, and decided that offering up that portion of yourself would be enough to end this conversation right here. “My self-loathing extends to my appearance.”

Her eyes thawed for a moment, and she nodded her understanding. 

She turned back to the beautifully miserable view and crossed her arms. “Steve convinced Barnes to go you know, I saw him grinning about it.”

“Grinning?”

“It wasn’t too long ago that Barnes would have completely turned his back on the idea of going outside whatsoever, even after he spent all that time in Wakanda.” She paused, remembering the time she had spent looking for the Winter Soldier with Steve and Sam. “Most people don’t blame him for what Hydra made him do, but a lot of people still do. And regardless, a lot of people stare. Especially at the arm.

The hand that had held his curled at your side, and you remembered how warm his hand had been. Unnaturally so. 

After she had left, you wondered if something as mundane as clothes was really the reason she had approached you.

Why had she brought Barnes up?

Presently, you decided that you needed a drink, and you didn’t care how early it was.

***

Peter Parker didn’t want to be up this early. It was Saturday, and he enjoyed those long lies in that teenagers so rarely got to do. Instead he was in the Tower elevator making his way up to the penthouse floor. His suit was playing up, nothing too serious. But he wanted to get it looked at before the issue  _ became _ serious. Mr Stark would be able to fix it in no time, and then he could go home. Mr Stark wasn’t at home, so now the only place he could be was the Tower.

The elevator doors slid open, and it looked like Peter was in luck. Behind the bar someone was rummaging around behind the counter. He had caught Mr Stark at the bar early before. It wasn’t that he was an early drinker, it was that he often stayed up for so many days at a time that he completely forgot what time it was. At that point an intervention was needed, usually in the form of Pepper. That was why he came here first, this is usually where he would be at this time in the morning.

“Um, Mr Stark?”

The rummaging stopped. Relief swept over him until the person behind the bar stood to their full height. Peter could have sworn that his heart fell to his knees when the last person he wanted to meet stood up straight with a whiskey glass in hand. His face fell completely before he could hide it, terror taking hold of him completely. His legs felt like they couldn’t support him as he watched you fill your glass with something dark brown. It looked like whiskey. He backed up a step. It was your eyes that freaked him out the most, they were so empty. He’d seen a corpse once, there wasn’t a great difference between the two of you.

He had seen your sketch on the news, and he’d been told by numerous people that he was  _ not _ aloud to speak to you. He'd been surprised, you hadn't _looked_ like a serial killer. But what you’d done. . . He was terrified. Even he was smart enough to be afraid of you, what you might have done to him if he’d been stupid enough to try and take you on when the Avengers discovered where you were. The thought of it had given him nightmares. He’d fought bad people before, people that enjoyed hurting others. But even they seemed like they’d balk at doing what you had done. 

“Can I help you?” you asked in a dead voice.

Peter was at a loss for words. “I um- I was-”

“Looking for Iron Man?”

He nodded, swallowing loudly. He was certain that you’d be able to hear his hammering heart. Horrific scenarios flashed through his head; you holding his heart in one hand while sipping your glass just so the noise wouldn't bother you, you standing over him with those dead eyes and a knife in your hand, you showing him intimately how you were able to forge animal attacks. 

“He’s not here.” You thrust your chin towards the elevator. “Try one of the labs.”

He nodded, keeping his eyes on you taking a drink as he stumbled to the elevator, eager to get away. He would regret that, since his stumbling sent him sprawled on the floor, and panic about being stuck with you had begun to set in. He would train with Mr Stark, Cap, Natasha etc with confidence, but being stuck in a room with an all but dead woman who had cut, sliced and torn her way through people was just too much to bear. He felt something prick behind his eyes and willed himself not to cry.

He was ready to throw you across the room when you walked over to him. But that feeling died when you held out your hand in an offer of help. Your face stayed the same, but he took in your bitten fingernails. Something about them steeled his quivering nerves,and he was able to take your hand and hoist himself up.

“What’s your name?”

He swallowed again. “Peter.”

“(Y/n). I’ve never killed children, Peter. I won’t start now.” Silence. “Which superhero are you?”

His hands shook slightly as he answered, “Spider-man.”

“Your secrets safe with me. Will I see you at the dance?”

He shook his head. “Experienced Avengers only.”

You let go of his hand. “Pity.”

You turned and went back to the bar, draining your glass as you went.

***

Peter left, and you poured yourself another glass. Only Avengers and cleaners were aloud on this level, hence how you'd known he was a hero. His terror had been written so plainly on his face, and you didn’t think it would affect you this much. You’d been living in secret for so long but it wasn’t like it hadn’t occurred to you that people would be afraid but. . .you didn’t think that. . . 

Something wet ran down your cheek.

Your stomach roiled, that anxiety now mixed in with something even worse that threatened to swallow you whole. You drained the glass, tears spilling from your eyes. You refilled it. Your grip tightened.  _ Monster. Monster. Monster. _ You had seen it in his eyes. Is that what you would see tonight?  _ Monster. Murderer. Freak. Bitch.  _ You deserved it you supposed. Maybe you had been wrong about the Avengers. Maybe they saw the same thing when they looked at you. Maybe they were just better at hiding it.  _ Animal _ . Why would anyone care about you?  _ Worthless _ . You didn’t even care about you. You were just a beast that hurt people for money. 

Before you could reconsider, you’d launched the glass through the room. It shattered against the far wall, wasted Whiskey dripping down onto the carpet. You sank to your knees, something akin to a whimper escaping your lips.  

Loneliness settled in again.  
  


Authors Note:

Okay so I finished my prelims and got over my cold. I’ve also got a RDR2 fic in development and that probably won’t be as slow paced as this one. Anyway, here ya go! I’m not  _ super _ happy with this one but I didn’t just want to drop people into the party immediately. If there's any mistakes I've made please let me know.

  
  



	19. The Party

Natasha’s offer of picking a dress had stood, waiting for you to accept it.

You hadn’t.

You’d at least tried to make yourself presentable though, not wanting to give people the impression that on top of a sadist you were a slob. You’d donned jeans and tucked a black shirt loosely into the waistband before throwing your leather jacket on. Plain boots of black leather came to your knees. No jewellery, no make up, nothing apart from a hairbrush being dragged through your hair to make you look presentable. Natasha had been disappointed, although she had barely let it show. 

You had been right, she had looked almost ethereal in a red dress that dipped down low at the neckline and had a slit along the left side to reveal one of her perfectly shaped legs. Her lips had been painted a ruby red to go with her curled hair and offset her dazzlingly white teeth. Miss Maximoff had been dressed to complement her more gothic beauty. A black gown that whispered as the hem brushed on the floor with see-through lace sleeves that stopped at her wrists. Her long hair had been braided back, and her eyeliner was sharp enough to cut throats. The Captain, Mr Stark, Clint and Barnes looked incredible in Tuxedos, although Barnes looked like he wished he could be anywhere else. Vision wasn’t coming, deciding that he would probably make the guests nervous. The Hulk was unnecessary and would probably cause more trouble. Parties were usually too stressful anyway. You weren’t sure about the reasons for the other members.

Barnes face was unreadable, carefully kept blank in what you interpreted as a coping strategy to hide how much he  _ really _ didn’t want to be here. You knew that he was here because the Captain had probably mentioned that in the event of a fight or even an attempted kidnapping, his expertise would be invaluable. His expertise. Skills that came at the cost of being a tortured slave for longer than he’d been free. You could relate to that. You’d never talk to him or anyone about it, but you could relate.

The hall the party was in was enormous. You weren’t quite sure where exactly in the city you were, not bothering to take your surroundings into account on that tense car journey. The chip in your neck had been rigged so that if you went outside the hall without an escort, you’d be brought to your knees. All you knew about this place was that it was a beautiful building with stone stairs leading up to glass double doors. People were taking pictures as you made your way into the packed building, some attempting to stop you and bombard you with questions you didn’t feel like answering. There was a bar at the far end of the room, and tables stacked with delicious food were not far away. Perfect, that could occupy you while this entire agonising event took place. 

There would be ballroom dancing that you would ignore and an actual charitable contribution would be made to a childrens’ hospital that Mr Stark had selected. It was going to be a generous amount too. Despite that cocky demeanour, he was a man who cared deeply. It was admirable. Pepper Potts was on his arm, her head held up high and her smile bright. She was beautiful, and the way he was looking at her. . . 

Love. Pure, unadulterated love that had no fear of being bared to the world. You wondered if she knew precisely how in love with her he was. Did he?

Everyone who was anyone had come to this event. A chance to be near Tony Stark, the Avengers  _ and _ look like a good person wanting to help people. This was practically a gift. You almost hoped that there was an attack tonight, just to see the plastic smiles get wiped off of their faces. Not to say that all of them were bad, some of them were here because they actually cared and were having a genuinely good time. If it came down to it, those were the ones you would protect first. 

When you made your way to the buffet, people cleared away from you as if you had the plague. You considered snarling for dramatic effect. You could feel eyes on you, hear whispered words. You ignored them to the best of your ability, choosing instead to pile your plate and find comfort in food. It wasn’t long before you were gnawing on a chicken wing and looking out on the crowd. The whispers reached you. Whispers of incredulity and suspicion. Whispers of sympathy and suspicions. Whispers of hatred for a woman they did not know.

_ Whatever _ . Natasha and the Captain were dancing together, both having fun but still being on guard. Clint and Miss Maximoff were talking about something avidly that had her smiling. Barnes however. . . he was leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. The metal arm was completely hidden from sight. That didn’t stop the attention that wandered over to him though. Some of it was the same kind of attention you received - the suspicion and fear and sympathy. However, he received another kind of attention that you weren’t familiar with.

Female attention.

Blushing women who were not at all as subtle as they thought they were looked him up and down regularly, giggling with their companions. Taking him in, you could see where they were coming from. The eyes always caught your attention first. There was no reason why anyone else wouldn’t feel the same. Those eyes could pin you in place if they wanted to. Then there was his jawline, sharp enough to compete with Miss Maximoff’s eyeliner. His hair had been left loose, but it looked silky. Like something that you could run your fingers through and not catch any tugs. It framed his face beautifully. And his body. . . The only other man in here with a broader chest and beefier arms was the Captain. You wondered if he knew how attractive he was. Did he care? You didn’t think you would in his position. You didn’t really know how attractive you were anyway. 

Women continued to ogle, and a surge of pity welled up in your chest. It was as if he was a zoo animal. One group of girls that stood near you whispered to each other behind their hands, discussing his past and how they thought that it would be easy to love him despite that. He was so kind. You wondered how they would react if his past had him on the floor with a racing heart and sobbing breaths.   

You rolled your eyes, opting to clean your plate of the small remainder of food. You looked back up, wondering if you should. . . approach him. Two loners in a crowd full of staring people? It was practically like it had been set up. And right now you weren’t really sure if you were content to sit alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces for god knows how many hours. It had already felt like an eternity and you had just fucking got here. But would he even welcome your company? He knew you about as well as you knew him. Uncertainty picked at you like a crow over carrion, right up until it looked like one of the girls was going to approach him. 

You got two glasses of rum and coke from the bar. The bartender was fairly calm, almost as if he didn’t recognise you. Thank God for small mercies.  

If you were being honest with yourself, you almost lost your nerve.  _ Coward _ . Dealing with people was so difficult, one of the hardest things you did. Your hands imperceptibly shook. But when you saw the girl that had begun heading for him lose  _ her _ nerve after noticing your approach and recede back into her friend group, your resolve had steeled. People parted for you like the Red Sea before Moses. Some people didn’t even bother to look at you. Other people shuddered. Others cast kind looks your way. 

Barnes only looked up when you were right in front of him. You swallowed, hoping he wouldn’t see the bob of your throat or hear the hammering of your heart. This was stupid. Why were you so nervous? Because he was good-looking? When had you become such a coward?

He accepted the glass with the normal hand. “Thank you.”

You nodded, taking up a place beside him where you leaned against the wall. Those crowds of girls were suddenly much less confident now that you were next to him. Good. He deserved to be left alone. 

“What’s the occasion?” His tone of voice was only slightly more animated than yours.

“Consider it a thank you for the sandwich.”

He smirked slightly, and you decided that it looked good. “That was an apology for choking you.”

“I stabbed you.”

“I attacked first.”

“I was a wanted criminal.”

“Stop trying to ruin it.” He said this with such a tone of seriousness. 

Your own mouth tilted up at the corner ever so slightly.  

He spoke again, “Can I ask you a question?”

You nodded.

“Do you know who might be after you?”

You considered for a moment. The Nameless were the most obvious choice. But you were sure that you had killed them. You and Ryan had dedicated those first two years on hunting them down as well as running from them. Then you had wiped out their last headquarters when they murdered him. The fingers of your free hand curled into a fist. Had you missed some? You really didn’t want to believe that. They were dead. They had to be. Now wasn’t the time to go and hunt them down. 

There was no carefully crafted answer so instead you just said, “Maybe.” You didn’t say anymore.

To his credit he didn’t pry. He just sipped on his drink and looked at your own empty glass. He gave you a look that said he thought you were an alcoholic. Well, he was welcome to think that. There were days when you thought that too. The day you had seen him in the gym just being one of them. You banished the thought, hoping he didn’t notice you tense up slightly at the memory. 

Looking at him now, there was none of that anger. But maybe right now it was hidden. Maybe when he was alone he could let it out. Maybe it wasn’t something that you should let other people see. As much as the general public had forgiven him, it would be easy to rile up their fears about him again. All it would take was one slip up and suddenly debates would arise about if he should be aloud to roam the streets unchecked. It would be unnecessary, you doubted he even really went outside that often. And having the Avengers around would hardly count as unsupervised. Where did he even live?

You sighed. “I need another drink. Want one?”

He nodded and drained his glass, handing it to you so you could refill it.

That had been the longest conversation you had had with him. 

Even as you distanced yourself from him, no one else made a move to approach him. Had you turned around, you would have noticed the Captain and Natasha had been watching your exchange. A ghost of a smile darted around Natasha’s face, whereas the Captain was unsure of what to think. Should he be happy that his friend was talking to someone? Should he be worried that that someone was you? He didn’t know you. 

The bartender wasn’t there. Typical. You’d have to make your own drink. Groaning, you went behind the bar and got on your hands and knees, searching the cupboards for any sign of what you were after. Your fingers closed around the neck of the bottle of rum-

All hell broke loose.

Every single door in the room was thrust open with a bang, and from where you were on the floor you couldn’t see a damn thing. People screamed, but there was no sounds of a fight. Releasing the rum, you gently scooted yourself back to sit on your heels. The tabletop from the bar shielded you. They couldn’t see you. You stayed there, listening. Were these the people after you?

“Everyone calm down!” Boomed a voice. “We’re here for one thing.”

The voice was unrecognisable. Carefully, oh so carefully, you peered up over the edge of the bar. Men in ski masks were dominating every doorway except for the front one. There had to be at least fifty of them, each one carrying an empty bag. The Avengers weren’t attacking them. You saw why pretty soon. 

A large man coming up to about 6’1 was strolling casually into the centre of the room. He was wearing a suit. Very few of them were wearing suits, and coincidentally there had been very few staff working tonight. It was genius really, no one had even thought to mark their faces, so caught up with maintaining their image. A few members of the group had replaced the staff and let the other members of their crew in.

The man in charge was holding a black box with a red button and a long silver antennae. A detonator. That was why no one was attacking. With his thumb right on the button like that, all it would take was someone startling him to blow the place up. That was why Tony Stark didn’t pull out some hidden tech,why the Captain remained frozen and Miss Maximoff dared not show even a wisp of her power. Why Natasha looked like she was fighting her instincts and why Barnes had pushed himself off the wall but remained rooted to the spot where you left him.

Ducking down, you held your breath. This was not the Nameless’ style. You knew you had killed them all. They were stealthy, preferring to stay out of the public eye until the time was right. 

“Well,” boomed the voice that was probably attached to the leader, “I never thought I’d have the Avengers wrapped around my little finger.”

You could almost feel Natasha seething with rage.

“Relax. All we want is a donation to the charity of us and then we’ll leave.”

You rolled your eyes at the arrogance in that voice.

“But if any of you try anything. . . Well, you know what’ll happen.”

These men were dangerous. It was a blessing they were just here for money. They were willing to blow themselves up to achieve their goals. 

Peeking over the edge again, you were content to let them take what they wanted and go. There were more important things than money and goods. But the way they were handling people. . . Regardless of what you had thought about plastic smiles being wiped off of faces, these people were terrified now. They were being roughly manhandled, some people being thrown to the ground. Women were being groped and men abused for no reason. And god damn you, you couldn’t let them get away with it. Captain America must radiate contagious goodwill.

Looking at the leader again, there was no way anyone would be fast enough to go for that detonator. No way any person on this room would be able to even get close enough to snatch it.

No person.

But maybe a bird could.

 

Authors Note: 

This chapter was a bit longer this time, but I really wanted to end with that line.  


	20. Nevermore

Flying for the first time had been. . . indescribable. Truly, words couldn't do it justice. Everyone wonders what it would be like at least once, and you could be the one to safely say that in the right circumstances it was just as amazing as people thought it was. Better, even. Like you had said though, it was indescribable. Trying to explain the feelings that flying stirred up would be tedious. The word “amazing” didn’t quite do it justice either. 

Yes, being a bird had been wonderful.

The shift into one had not been.

Shifting required somewhere secluded where no one would be able to hear you. Even if it meant trekking out to the wilderness over the course of three days and marking trees to make sure you and Ryan didn’t get lost. You could always just turn into a wolf to find your way back, but. . . afterwards your body and mind would be too raw to be able to as much as pick yourself up. It was extremely likely that you'd have to be carried most of the way back. 

You hadn’t wanted to. You would have been perfectly happy keeping your shift limited to a tiger, wolf and a snake. But Ryan had insisted. He had pressed about the scouting advantages, about how beneficial being small could be if you needed to spy. Never mind that the animals you shifted into were always bigger than usual. And ravens really could be fucking huge. But still, the Nameless couldn’t suspect every abnormally large animal they came across, especially since they knew about the cost of a new shift. They had watched one. Studied one. Let you writhe around in agony for an audience to satisfy their own curiousity and to discuss if this ability could be useful.

They hadn't known. They were responsible for many things in your life, but this wasn't one of them.

Different members had overseen torture and training. It was always changing, never allowing a member to become attached to the poor broken girl in chains. The fact that they had no trust in their own members spoke volumes about their organisation. The higher ups never changed though. The ones that were responsible for the entire organisation. All of them had been bad, but one of them had been worse than the others. One of them had gone out of his way to make your life miserable. Him and his bitch wife.

You shuddered. You wouldn’t think about him. Not right now. Anyway, you had ended up eating his bitch wife.

This shift was something you would experience alone, with Ryan waiting for you not too far away. He hadn’t wanted to see the shift this time. He seen the first transformation into a snake, the way your body twisted and contorted to accommodate a foreign shape. He had vomited. But he had still been there for you,holding you and comforting you when you had turned back and dissolved into a pathetic mess of sobs and screams.

But he couldn’t do it again. Shame had been written across his features as clearly as if someone had written the word across his skin. You had told him that it was okay. You understood. But you still felt a stab of hurt in your chest.  _ Love me enough to take advantage of my power, not enough to deal with the pain it causes me _ . You had immediately hated yourself for thinking that, added it to the list of reasons that fueled the way you felt about yourself. How dare you think this about him when he had already done so much for you. You would have never gotten out if it weren’t for him. You had no right to question or judge him.

So you stood on the tips of your toes and gave him a lingering kiss, a kiss that soon turned ravenous. That had always been a problem for the two of you. It took very little prompting before you too were fumbling with each others clothes and laying down on whatever surface would support you. Sometimes it was exhausting, sometimes you weren’t really sure that you wanted to. But you’d never tell him that.  _ This _ was your way of silently apologizing for the thoughts that sometimes ran through your head, regardless of the fact that he had no idea about them.  _ This _ was how you showed him that you loved him.

His hand reached around you to grab your hair, pulling you in closer until your body was flush against his. You indulged him, not finding the strength or will to be separated from him, especially since the only thing waiting for you after this was torture. Heat pooled in your core and between your legs. Your hands rose to grip his face, your tongue flicking his lower lip. Any minute now there would be no turning back. Any minute now you’d be  _ on _ your back.

But you pushed away from him instead, your hand flat on the centre of his chest as you took a deep inhale to clear the lust from your addled mind.

“Later,” you promised.

He nodded, hunger in his eyes. Hunger for  _ you _ . The thought almost lit you on fire. Straightening yourself and forcing yourself to turn away had felt like it might kill you. His eyes burned a brand deep into your back. A back that would soon be broken.

The thought was enough to get your mind back under control. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over you. What was to come next would not be pleasant. If there was a hell, it would be this. Over and over. Forever. 

***

The process of a first transformation did not last long. That was the one small mercy in your life that you had been given. 

You stared up at scraps of sky through a canopy of leaves as you lay on your back in a small clearing not too far away from where you had left Ryan. He would still be able to hear you, even if he didn’t want to see you. A chill wind bit at your naked body.

There was nothing else to do now. Except get on with it.

Your spine broke first.

It was always the spine first, and each time you let out an ear shattering scream.

There was no time to adjust to the pain as your back arched. Every single one of your ribs splintered one after the other. You could feel the shards of broken bone pierce your heart and lungs, making it difficult to get air in. At this point, you should be dying. But this curse of your wouldn’t be so kind. It was keeping you alive, but it was also stopping your body from producing endorphins to stop the pain even just a little bit. You were alive, awake and aware. Your other bones quickly followed suit, each one taking its turn to shatter. Your screams became distorted as your jaw took its turn and your vocal chords were pierced.

Limbs twisted, skin distorted and stretched with bones threatening to break through, organs being impaled, and eyes wide with pain and screams that sounded like what you must hear at the gates of hell. Ryan had covered his ears in the distance, trying to block them out. If anyone had seen you, they would have ran in terror, convinced they’d seen something not of this world. 

There was too much of you to be a raven. Things had to shrink. Things had to go.Too much tissue. Too much bone. Too much _ you _ . It had to go. 

And when organs tore into pieces and blood vessels burst, all the pieces of yourself that you didn’t need traveled upwards towards your ruined throat. Your eyes were wide when your mouth was forced open painfully and a never-ending gout of blood shot up into the sky, filled with those pieces that you didn’t need. You shut your eyes against the splatter of meat and bone that hit your face.

Saggy skin was left, and now it began to to pull into your torso as the tissue left over from your organs and the pieces of broken bone began to stitch back together to form something new. Your body began to reshape itself. Hair follicles changed and toenails became talons. Sleek black feathers rolled out over your skin, and your eyes became black and beady while your mouth stretched to form a beak.

And then it was over. And you were just a large bird laying on its side in a clearing. The pain stopped, but still you struggled to bring in air. You were not accustomed to this shape, but your body would know what to do the next time. 

Next time it wouldn’t hurt.

Next time this shape would be easy.

As you shifted back into a woman, fresh tears spilled and quiet sobs broke from your lips.

Sex was the farthest thing from your mind.

***

That memory would never leave you. None of the shifts ever would. Hard to forget pain like that. But memories weren’t important right now. What was important was making sure that tall fucker and his pathetic cronies were knocked down a few pegs. They were about to get a lot more than they bargained for.

You took off your boots and lay down on your back, shutting your eyes. The shift was smooth and seamless, the only noise being the sound of your clothes rustling as a raven traveled through them and rustled her dark feathers.  
  


 

Authors Note:

I am a terrible person, I know this. 

School holidays have just finished, and I was getting up late in the day and going to work then coming back and relaxing before going to bed. Well, now that school’s back on I’m not working five days a week anymore, but it’s exam season too. Finishing up my last year of high school then moving on to college. 

The next chapter will be out much sooner.

I promise xx     
  



End file.
